THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS 
REFLECTION 

•  • 

ELLA  WHOLE*  Wixox 


fOCMS  Of 

rotMt  of 


our  OP  T>«  otrmt 


Copyright  1905. 
M.  A.  DONOHUE  & 


PS 


CONTENTS. 


PAQB. 

Bohemia 9 

Penalty 11 

Life 12 

Lines  from  "Maurine" 14 

When 15 

Only  Dreams 17 

"In  the  Night" 20 

Contentment 24 

A  New  Year's  Greeting  to  the  City  of  the  Lakes.  26 

Mother's  Loss 28 

The  Women 30 

Lean  Down  and  Lift  Me  Higher 32 

A  Tribute  to  Vinnie  Ream 34 

The  Little  Bird 36 

"Vampires" 38 

Dying 40 

The  King  and  Siren 42 

Sunshine  and  Shadow 45 

"Whatever  is— is  best" 47 

Transplanted 49 

Worldly  Wisdom 51 

New  Orleans,  1885 52 

The  Room  Beneath  the  Rafters 53 

My  Comrade 55 

At  an  Old  Drawer 57 

So  Long  in  Coming 59 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Lay  it  Away 61 

Perished 63 

The  Belle's  Soliloquy 65 

My  Vision \ 67 

Dream-Time 69 

Sing  to  Me 71 

Summer  Song 73 

'  A  Twilight  Thought 75 

The  Belle  of  the  Season 77 

Joy 80 

Bird  of  Hope 81 

A  Golden  Day 83 

Fading 85 

All  the  World 87 

Lines 89 

A  Fragment 91 

The  Change 92 

Old 94 

The  Musicians 96 

The  Doomed  City's  Prayer 99 

Daft 101 

Hung :  104 

When  I  am  Dead 107 

In  Memory  of  Miss  Jenny  Blanchard 109 

In  Memory  of  J.  B Ill 

Bird  of  Hope 113 

Ghosts 115 

Out  of  the  Depths 117 

Mistakes 119 

Presumption 121 

Twilight  Thoughts 123 


CONTENTS.  7 

PAGE. 

Listen! 125 

Song  of  the  Spirit 127 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers 129 

Lines  Written  Upon  the  Death  of  James  Buell.  135 

Searching 137 

Fading 139 

A  Dream 141 

Idler's  Song 143 

For  Him  Who  Best  Shall  Understand  It 146 

Dying 149 

Thanksgiving 151 

Our  Angel 153 

Until  the  Night 155 

A  Tribute 157 

In  Memory  of  Charlie  Spaulding 159 


BOHEMIA. 


Bohemia,  o'er  thy  unatlassed  borders 

How  many  cross,  with  half-reluctant  feet, 

And  unformed  fears  of  dangers  and  disorders, 
To  find  delights,  more  wholesome  and  more  sweet 
Than  ever  yet  were  known  to  the  "elite." 

Herein  can  dwell  no  pretence  and  no  seeming; 
No  stilted  pride  thrives  in  this  atmosphere, 

Which  stimulates  a  tendency  to  dreaming. 
The  shores  of  the  ideal  world,  from  here, 
Seem  sometimes  to  be  tangible  and  near. 

We  have  no  use  for  formal  codes  of  fashion ; 

No  "Etiquette  of  Courts"  we  emulate; 
We  know  it  needs  sincerity  and  passion 

To  carry  out  the  plans  of  God,  or  fate; 

We  do  not  strive  to  seem  inanimate. 

We  call  no  time  lost  that  we  give  to  pleasure ; 
Life's  hurrying  river  speeds  to  Death's  great 
sea; 

We  cast  out  no  vain  plummet-line  to  measure 
Imagined  depths  of  that  unknown  To  Be, 
But  grasp  the  Now,  and  fill  it  full  of  glee. 


10  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION, 

All  creeds  have  room  here,  and  we  all  together 
Devoutly  worship  at  Art's  sacred  shrine; 

But  he  who  dwells  once  in  thy  golden  weather, 
Bohemia — sweet,  lovely  land  of  mine — 
Can  find  no  joy  outside  thy  border-line. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  II 


PENALTY. 


Because  of  the  fullness  of  what  I  had, 
All  that  I  have  seems  poor  and  vain. 

If  I  had  not  been  happy,  I  were  not  sad — 
Tho'  my  salt  is  savorless,  why  complain? 


From  the  ripe  perfection  of  what  was  mine, 
All  that  is  mine  seems  worse  than  naught; 

Yet  I  know,  as  I  sit  in  the  dark  and  pine, 

No  cup  could  be  drained  which  had  not  been 
fraught. 


From  the  throb  and  thrill  of  a  day  that  was, 
The  day  that  now  is  seems  dull  with  gloom ; 

Yet  I  bear  the  dullness  and  darkness,  because 
Tis  but  the  reaction  of  glow  and  bloom. 


From  the  royal  feast  that  of  old  was  spread 
I  am  starved  on  the  diet  that  now  is  mine ; 

Yet,  I  could  not  turn  hungry  from  water  and  bread 
If  I  had  not  been  sated  on  fruit  and  wine. 


12      POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


LIFE. 


An  infant — wailing  in  nameless  fear; 

A  shadow,  perchance,  in  the  quiet  room, 
Or  the  hum  of  an  insect  flying  near, 

Or  the  screech  owl's  cry  in  the  outer  gloom. 

A  little  child  on  the  sun-checked  floor ; 

A  broken  toy,  and  a  tear-stained  face ; 
A  young  life  clouded,  a  young  heart  sore, 

And  the  great  clock,  Time,  ticks  on  apace. 


A  maiden  weeping  in  bitter  pain; 

Two  white  hands,  clasped  on  an  aching  brow ; 
A  blighted  faith,  and  a  fond  hope  slain, 

A  shattered  trust,  and  a  broken  vow. 


A  matron  holding  a  baby's  shoe ; 

The  hot  tears  gather  and  fall  at  will, 
On  the  knotted  ribbon  of  white  and  blue, 

For  the  foot  that  wore  it  is  cold  and  still. 


An  aged  woman  upon  her  bed, 

Worn  and  wearied,  and  poor  and  old; 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  13 

Longing  to  rest  with  the  happy  dead; 
And  thus  the  story  of  life  is  told. 


Where  is  the  season  of  careless  glee ; 

Where  is  the  moment  that  holds  no  pain, 
Life  has  its  crosses  from  infancy 

Down  to  the  grave,  and  its  hopes  are  vain. 


14  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


LINES  FROM  "MAURINE." 


I'd  rather  have  my  verses  win 
A  place  in  common  peoples'  hearts, 

Who,  toiling  through  the  strife  and  din 
Of  life's  great  thoroughfares,  and  marts.. 

May  read  some  line  my  hand  has  penned; 
Some  simple  verse,  not  fine,  or  grand, 
But  what  their  hearts  can  understand 

And  hold  me  henceforth  as  a  friend, — 

I'd  rather  win  such  quiet  fame 

Than  by  some  fine  thought,  polished  so 
But  those  of  learned  minds  would  know, 
Just  what  the  meaning  of  my  song, — 

To  have  the  critics  sound  my  name 
In  high-flown  praises,  loud  and  long. 

I  sing  not  for  the  critic's  ear, 
But  for  the  masses.    If  they  hear, 
Despite  the  turmoil,  noise  and  strife 
Some  least  low  note  that  gladdens  life, 
I  shall  be  wholly  satisfied, 
Though  critics  to  the  end  deride. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  15 


WHEN. 


I  dwell  in  the  western  inland, 

Afar  from  the  sounding  sea, 
But  I  seem  to  hear  it  sobbing 

And  calling  aloud  to  me, 
And  my  heart  cries  out  for  the  ocean 

As  a  child  for  its  mother's  breast, 
And  I  long  to  lie  on  its  waters 

And  be  lulled  in  its  arms  to  rest. 


I  can  close  my  eyes  and  fancy 

That  I  hear  its  mighty  roar, 
And  I  see  its  blue  waves  splashing 

And  plunging  against  the  shore; 
And  the  white  foam  caps  the  billow, 

And  the  sea-gulls  wheel  and  cry, 
And  the  cool  wild  wind  is  blowing 

And  the  ships  go  sailing  by. 


Oh,  wonderful,  mighty  ocean! 

When  shall  I  ever  stand, 
Where  my  heart  has  gone  already, 

There  on  thy  gleaming  strand! 


16  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

When  shall  I  ever  wander 
Away  from  this  inland  west, 

And  stand  by  thy  side,  dear  ocean, 
And  rock  on  thy  heaving  breast? 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  17 


ONLY  DREAMS. 


A  maiden  sat  in  the  sunset  glow 

Of  the  shadowy,  beautiful  Long  Ago, 

That  we  see  through  a  mist  of  tears. 
She  sat  and  dreamed,  with  lips  apart, 
With  thoughtful  eyes  and  a  beating  heart, 

Of  the  mystical  future  years ; 
And  brighter  far  than  the  sunset  skies 
Was  the  vision  seen  by  the  maiden's  eyes. 


There  were  castles  built  of  the  summer  air, 
And  beautiful  voices  were  singing  there, 

In  a  soft  and  floating  strain. 
There  were  skies  of  azure  and  fields  of  green, 
With  never  a  cloud  to  come  between, 

And  never  a  thought  of  pain; 
There  was  music,  sweet  as  the  silvery  notes 
That  flow  from  a  score  of  thrushes'  throats. 


There  were  hands  to  clasp  with  a  loving  hold ; 
There  were  lips  to  kiss,  and  eyes  that  told 

More  than  the  lips  could  say. 
And  all  of  the  faces  she  loved  were  there, 


18  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

With  their  snowy  brows  untouched  by  care, 

And  locks  that  were  never  gray. 
And  Love  was  the  melody  each  heart  beat, 
And  the  beautiful  vision  was  all  complete. 


But  the  castles  built  of  the  summer  wind 
I  have  vainly  sought.    I  only  find 

Shadows,  all  grim  and  cold ; — 
For  I  was  the  maiden  who  thought  to  see 
Into  the  future  years, — Ah,  me ! 

And  I  am  gray  and  old. 
My  dream  of  earth  was  as  fair  and  bright 
As  my  hope  of  heaven  is  to-night. 


Dreams  are  but  dreams  at  the  very  best, 
And  the  friends  I  loved  lay  down  to  rest 

With  their  faces  hid  away. 
They  had  furrowed  brows  and  snowy  hair, 
And  they  willingly  laid  their  burdens  where 

Mine  shall  be  laid  one  day. 
A  shadow  came  over  my  vision  scene 
As  the  clouds  of  sorrow  came  in  between. 


The  hands  that  I  thought  to  clasp  are  crossed, 
The  lips  and  the  beautiful  eyes  are  lost, 

And  I  seek  them  all  in  vain. 
The  gushes  of  melody,  sweet  and  clear, 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  19 

And  the  floating  voices,  I  do  not  hear, 

But  only  a  sob  of  pain ; 
And  the  beating  hearts  have  paused  to  rest, 
Ah !  dreams  are  but  dreams  at  the  very  best. 


20  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


"IN  THE  NIGHT." 


In  the  silent  midnight  watches, 

When  the  earth  was  wrapped  in  gloom, 
And  the  grim  and  awful  darkness 

Crept  unbidden  to  my  room, 
On  the  solemn,  deathly  stillness 

Of  the  night  there  broke  a  sound 
Like  ten  million  wailing  voices, 

Crying  loudly  from  the  ground. 


From  ten  million  graves,  came  voices 

East  and  west  and  north  and  south. 
Leagues  apart,  and  yet  together 

Spake  they,  e'en  as  with  one  mouth. 
"Men  and  women,  men  and  women," 

Cried  these  voices  from  the  ground, 
And  the  very  earth  was  shaken 

With  the  strange  and  awful  sound. 


"Ye  who  weep  in  selfish  sorrow, 
Ye  who  laugh  in  selfish  mirth, 

Hark !  and  listen  for  a  moment 
To  the  voices  from  the  earth. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  21 

Wake,  and  listen,  ye  who  slumber. 

Pause,  and  listen,  ye  who  feast, 
To  the  warning  of  the  voices 

From  the  graves  in  west  and  east. 


"We,  the  victims  of  a  demon, 

We,  who  one,  and  each,  and  all, 
Can  cry  out  before  high  Heaven, 

We  are  slain  by  Alcohol. 
We  would  warn  you,  youths  and  maidens, 

From  the  path  that  we  have  trod. 
From  the  path  that  leads  to  ruin, 

And  away  from  Peace  and  God. 


"We,  the  millions  who  have  fallen, 

Warn  you  from  the  ruddy  glow 
Of  the  wine  in  silver  goblets, 

For  destruction  lies  below, 
Wine  and  gin,  and  rum  and  brandy, 

Whiskey,  cider,  ale  and  beer : 
These  have  slain  us,  and  destroyed  us — 

These  the  foes  that  brought  us  here. 


"You  are  safe,  you  say?  ah,  Heaven! 

So  we  said,  and  drank,  and  died, 
We  are  safe,  we  proudly  boasted, 

Yet  we  sunk  down  in  the  tide. 


22  POEMS  OF  EEFLECTION. 

There  is  never  any  safety 
From  the  snares  of  Alcohol, 

For  the  youth  who  looks  on  liquor, 
Tastes,  or  handles  it  at  all. 


"We  beseech  you,  men  and  women, 

Fathers,  Mothers,  Husbands,  Wives, 
To  arise  and  slay  the  demon 

That  is  threatening  dear  one's  lives. 
Do  not  preach  of  moderation 

To  your  children,  for  alas ! 
There  is  not  a  foe  more  subtle 

Than  the  fateful  Social  Glass. 


"Thoughtless  mother,  wife  or  sister, 

Dash  that  poison  cup  away ! 
He,  the  husband,  son,  or  brother, 

Who  so  gaily  sips  to-day, 
May  to-morrow  stagger  homeward, 

Jeered  and  scorned  by  sober  men. 
Would  you  smile  upon  him  proudly- 

Would  you  say  'I  did  it' — then? 


"Ah!  a  vast  and  mighty  number 
Of  the  drunkards  in  all  lands 

Take  the  first  step  to  destruction 
Led  by  white  and  fragile  hands. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  23 

Every  smile  you  give  the  wine-cup, 

Every  glance,  oh  lady  fair, 
Like  a  spade  digs  down,  and  hollows 
Out,  a  drunkard's  grave,  somewhere. 


"Men  in  office,  men  in  power: 

Will  you  let  this  demon  wild 
Stalk  unfettered  through  the  nation, 

Slaying  woman,  man,  and  child? 
Oh,  arouse,  ye  listless  mortals ! 

There  is  work  for  every  one ! 
We  have  warned  you  of  your  danger; 

We  have  spoken — we  have  done!" 


Round  about  me  fell  the  silence 

Of  the  solemn  night,  once  more, 
And  I  heard  the  quiet  ticking 

Of  the  clock  outside  my  door. 
It  was  not  a  dreamer's  fancy — 

Not  a  romance  of  my  brain — 
Bat  the  warning  of  the  victims 

That  Old  Alcohol  had  slain. 


24  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


CONTENTMENT. 


If  any  line  that  I  ever  penned, 

Or  any  word  I  have  spoken, 
Has  comforted  heart,  of  foe  or  friend — 

In  any  way,  why  my  life,  I  '11  say 
Has  reaped  the  reward  of  labor. 

If  aught  I  have  said,  or  written,  has  made 
Gladder  the  heart  o'  my  neighbor. 


If  any  deed  that  I  ever  did 

Lightened  a  sad  heart's  sorrow, 
If  I  have  lifted  a  drooping  lid 

Up  to  the  bright  to-morrow, 

Though   the   world  knows   not,   nor   gives   me   a 
thought, 

Nor  ever  can  know,  nor  praise  me. 
Yet  still  I  shall  say,  to  my  heart  alway, 

That  my  life,  and  labor  repays  me. 


If  in  any  way  I  have  helped  a  soul, 

Or  given  a  spirit  pleasure, 
Then  my  cup  of  joy,  I  shall  think  is  full 

With  an  overflowing  measure. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  25 

Though  never  an  eye,  but  the  one  on  high 

Looks  on  my  kindly  action, 
Yet,  oh  my  heart,  we  shall  think  of  our  part 

In  the  drama,  with  satisfaction. 


26  POEMS  OF  EEFLECTION. 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  GREETING  TO  THE 
CITY  OF  THE  LAKES. 


I  said  ''I  will  write  a  greeting, 
To  the  City  of  the  Lakes, 

Write,  while  the  city  sleep  eth, 
And  sing  it  when  it  wakes. 


"To  this  fair,  and  blessed  city, 
That  the  glad  New  Year  doth  bring 

Its  best,  and  its  sweetest  treasure, 
Its  choicest  offering. 


"It  brings  to  our  joyful  Nation, 

The  boon  of  Peace  again, 
The  fields  are  white,  not  scarlet, 

With  the  death-blood  of  the  slain. 


"And  not  with  the  sounds  of  sobbing, 

Do  we  usher  in  the  year, 
Not  with  hand  clasps,  and  partings, 

But  with  goodly  mirth  and  cheer. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  27 

"And  brother  shall  meet  with  brother, 
In  peace,  from  North  to  South, 

And  'I  wish  you  a  happy  New  Year,' 
Shall  echo  from  mouth  to  mouth. 


"And  there  shall  be  feast,  and  revel, 

In  many  a  home,  to-day, 
(God  grant  that  the  wine  be  banished 

From  every  board  away.) 


"Thank  God  for  his  righteous  goodness, 
For  a  land  not  red  with  strife — 

Thank  God  for  the  New  Year's  blessing, 
Thank  God  for  the  boon  of  life. 


"Oh!  beautiful  white-robed  city, 
Asleep  in  the  arms  of  Lakes, 

I  write  me  a  song  while  it  slumbers, 
And  I'll  sing  me  a  song  when  it  wakes." 


And  thus  while  I  dreamed,  and  pondered, 
O'er  the  glad  song  I  would  sing, 

Lo !  I  saw  the  sun  was  rising, 
And  my  muse  had  taken  wing. 


28  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


MOTHER'S  LOSS. 

If  I  could  clasp  my  little  babe 

Upon  my  breast  to-night, 
I  would  not  mind  the  blowing  wind 

That  shrieketh  in  affright. 
Oh,  my  lost  babe !  my  little  babe, 

My  babe  with  dreamful  eyes; 
Thy  bed  is  cold;  and  night  wind  bold 

Shrieks  woeful  lullabies. 

My  breast  is  softer  than  the  sod; 

This  room,  with  lighter  hearth, 
Is  better  place  for  thy  sweet  face 

Than  frozen  mother  earth. 
Oh,  my  babe !  oh,  my  lost  babe ! 

Oh,  babe  with  waxen  hands. 
I  want  thee  so,  I  need  thee  so— 

Come  from  thy  mystic  lands! 

No  love  that,  like  a  mother's,  fills 

Each  corner  of  the  heart; 
No  loss  like  hers,  that  rends,  and  chills, 

And  tears  the  soul  apart. 
Oh,  babe — my  babe,  my  helpless  babe ! 

I  miss  thy  little  form. 
Would  I  might  creep  where  thou  dost  sleep, 

And  clasp  thee  through  the  storm. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION,  29 

I  hold  thy  pillow  to  my  breast, 

To  bring  a  vague  relief ; 
I  sing  the  songs  that  soothed  thy  rest— 

Ah  me!  no  cheating  grief. 
My  breathing  babe !  my  sobbing  babe ! 

I  miss  thy  plaintiff  moan, 
I  cannot  hear — thou  art  not  near — 

My  little  one,  my  own. 

Thy  father  sleeps.    He  mourns  thy  loss, 

But  little  fathers  know 
The  pain  that  makes  a  mother  toss 

Through  sleepless  nights  of  woe. 
My  clinging  babe !  my  nursing  babe ! 

What  knows  thy  father — man — 
How  my  breasts  miss  thy  lips  soft  kiss — 

None  but  a  mother  can. 
Worn  out,  I  sleep ;  I  wake — I  weep— 

I  sleep — hush,  hush,  my  dear; 
Sweet  lamb,  fear  not — Oh,  God !  I  thought— 

I  thought  my  babe  was  here. 


30  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


THE  WOMEN. 

See  the  women — pallid  women,  of  our  land ! 
See  them  fainting,  dying,  dead,  on  every  hand ! 

See  them  sinking  'neath  a  weight 

Far  more  burdensome  than  Fate 
Ever  placed  upon  poor  human  beings'  backs. 

See  them  falling  as  they  go — 

By  their  own  hands  burdened  so — 
Paling,  failing,  sighing,  dying,  on  their  tracks! 


See  the  women — ghastly  women,  on  the  streets! 
With  their  corset-tortured  waists,  and  pinched  up 
feet! 

Hearts  and  lungs  all  out  of  place, 

Whalebone  forms  devoid  of  grace; 
Faces  pallid,  robbed  of  Nature's  rosy  bloom; 

Purple-lidded  eyes  that  tell, 

With  a  language  known  too  well, 
Of  the  sick-room,  death-bed,  coffin,  pall  and  tomb. 


See  the  women — sickly  women,  everywhere, 
See  the  cruel,  killing  dresses  that  they  wear! 
Bearing  round  those  pounds  of  jet, 
Can  you  wonder  that  they  fret, 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  31 

Pale,  and  pine,  and  fall  the  victims  of  decay? 
Is  it  strange  the  blooming  maid, 
All  so  soon  should  droop  and  fade — 

Like  a  beast  of  burden  burdened,  day  on  day? 


See  the  women  and  their  dresses  as  they  go, 
Trimmed  and  retrimmed,  line  on  line  and  row  on 
row; 

Hanging  over  fragile  hips, 

Driving  color  from  the  lips, 
Dragging  down  their  foolish  wearers  to  the  grave ! 

Suicide,  and  nothing  less, 

In  this  awful  style  of  dress! 
Who  shall  rise  to  women's  rescue,  who  shall  save? 


See  the  women — foolish  women,  dying  fast; 

What  have  all  their  trimmed-up  dresses  brought 

at  last? 

Worry,  pain,  disease  and  death, 
Loss  of  bloom  and  gasping  breath; 

Doctors'  bill,  and  golden  hours  thrown  away. 
They  have  bartered  off  for  these 
Beauty,  comfort,  health  and  ease — 

All  to  ape  the  fleeting  fashion  of  a  day. 


32  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


LEAN  DOWN  AND  LIFT  ME  HIGHER. 


Lean  down  and  lift  me  higher,  Josephine; 
From  the  eternal  hills  hast  thou  not  seen ; 
How  I  do  strive  for  heights?  but  lacking  wings, 
I  cannot  grasp  at  once  these  better  things, 
To  which  I  in  my  inmost  soul  aspire, 
Lean  down  and  lift  me  higher. 

I  grope  along — not  desolate  or  sad, 
For  youth  and  hope  and  health  all  keep  me  glad ; 
But  too  bright  sunlight  sometimes  makes  us  blind, 
And  I  do  grope  for  heights  I  cannot  find ; 
O!  thou  must  know  my  one  supreme  desire. 
Lean  down  and  lift  me  higher. 


Not  long  ago  we  trod  the  selfsame  way ; 
Thou  knewest  how  from  day  to  fleeting  day ; 
Our  souls  were  vexed  with  trifles,  and  our  feet 
Were  lured  aside  to  by-paths  that  seemed  sweet, 
But  only  served  to  hinder  and  to  tire. 
Lean  down  and  lift  me  higher. 

Thou  hast  gone  onward  to  the  heights  serene 
And  left  me  here,  my  loved  one,  Josephine. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  33 

I  am  content  to  stay  until  the  end, 
For  life  is  full  of  promise ;  but,  my  friend, 
Canst  thou  not  help  me  in  my  best  desire? 
0!  lean  and  lift  me  higher. 


Frail  tho'  thou  wert,  thou  hast  grown  strong  and 

wise, 

And  quick  to  understand  and  sympathize 
"With  all  a  full  soul's  needs.    It  must  be  so; 
Thy  year  with  God  hath  made  thee  great,  I  know. 
Thou  must  see  how  I  struggle  and  aspire; 
O  warm  me  with  a  breath  of  heavenly  fire. 
And  lean  and  lift  me  higher. 


34  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  VINNIE  REAM. 


All  hail  to  Vinnie  Ream! 

Wisconsin's  artist  daughter, 
Who  stands  to-day  crowned  with  the  fame 

Her  noble  work  has  brought  her. 
Lift  up  your  brows,  hills  of  the  West, 

And  tell  the  winds  the  story, 
How  she,  our  fairest,  and  our  best, 

Has  climbed  the  heights  of  glory. 


Three  cheers  for  Vinnie  Ream ! 

Who  fought  with  tribulation, 
And  brought  from  death,  to  lasting  life^ 

The  martyr  of  our  Nation. 
Oh,  Spite  and  Envy,  flee  in  shame! 

And  hide  your  head,  black  Malice ! 
She  sips,  to-day,  the  sweets  of  Fame, 

From  Fame's  emblazoned  chalice. 


Thank  God  for  Vinnie  Ream! 

The  peerless  Badger  maiden, 
Who  stands  a  nation's  pride,  to-day 

With  a  nation's  honors  laden. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  35 

Ay!  crown  her  Queen  at  every  feast, 

And  strew  her  path  with  flowers, 
Ye  people  of  the  South  and  East, 

But  remember,  she  is  ours! 


Bring  gifts  to  Vinnie  Ream ! 

I  have  no  gift  to  offer, 
Only  a  little  gift  of  song, 

And  that  I  humbly  proffer; — 
Only  this  little  gift  to  lay 

Before  Columbia's  daughter, 
Who  stands  crowned  with  the  fame,  to-day, 

That  her  noble  work  has  brought  her. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


THE  LITTLE  BIRD. 


The  father  sits  in  his  lonely  room, 

Outside  sings  a  little  bird. 
But  the  shadows  are  laden  with  death  and  gloom, 

And  the  song  is  all  unheard. 
The  father's  heart  is  the  home  of  sorrow; 

His  breast  is  the  seat  of  grief ! 
Who  will  hunt  the  paper  for  him  on  the  morrow — 

Who  will  bring  him  sweet  relief 
From  wearing  thought  with  innocent  chat  ? 
Who  will  find  his  slippers  and  bring  his  hat? 
Still  the  little  bird  sings 
And  flutters  her  wings; 
The  refrain  of  her  song  is,  "God  knows  best! 
He  giveth  his  little  children  rest." 
What  can  she  know  of  these  sorrowful  things? 


The  mother  sits  by  the  desolate  hearth, 
And  weeps  o'er  a  vacant  chair. 

Sorrow  has  taken  the  place  of  mirth — 
Joy  has  resigned  to  despair. 

Bitter  the  cup  the  mother  is  drinking, 
So  bitter  the  tear-drops  start. 

Sad  are  the  thoughts  the  mother  is  thinking—- 
Oh, they  will  break  her  heart. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  37 

"Who  will  run  on  errands,  and  romp  and  play, 
And  mimic  the  robins  the  livelong  day? 

StiU  the  little  bird  sings 

And  flutters  her  wings; 
"God  reigns  in  heaven,  and  He  will  keep 
The  dear  little  children  that  fall  asleep." 
What  can  she  know  of  these  sorrowful  things  ? 


Grandmother  sits  by  the  open  door, 

And  her  tears  fall  down  like  rain. 
Was  there  ever  a  household  so  sad  before, 

Will  it  ever  be  glad  again? 
Many  unwelcome  thoughts  come  flitting 

Into  the  granddame's  mind. 
Who  will  take  up  the  stitches  she  drops  in  knitting  ? 

Who  will  her  snuff-box  find? 
Who'll  bring  her  glasses,  and  wheel  her  chair, 
And  tie  her  kerchief,  and  comb  her  hair? 
Still  the  little  bird  sings 
And  flutters  her  wings; 
' '  God  above  doeth  all  things  well, 
I  sang  it  the  same  when  my  nestlings  fell." 
Ah !  this  knows  the  bird  of  these  sorrowful  things. 


38  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


"VAMPIRES." 


Lo!  here's  another  corpse  exhumed! 

Another  Poet,  disinterred! 
Sensation  cried,  "Dig  up  the  grave, 

And  let  the  dust  be  hoed  and  stirred, 
And  bring  the  bones  of  Shakespeare  out! 
'?Twill  edify  the  throng,  no  doubt ! 

"The  Byron  scandal  has  grown  old; 

That  rare  tit-bit  is  flat  and  stale. 
The  throng  is  gaping  for  more  food; 

We  need  a  new  Sensation  tale ; 
Old  Shakespeare  sleeps  too  well,  and  sound; 
Tear  off  the  shroud — dig  up  the  ground. 

"We  have  exhumed  poor  'Raven  Poe,' 
And  proved  beyond  the  shade  of  doubt, 

He  saw  no  raven,  after  all. 
Now  trot  the  bones  of  Shakespeare  out ! 

Byron,  and  Poe,  and  Shakespeare — good! 

Who  shall  we  serve  up  next,  for  food?" 


And  who  ?  say  I.    Oh,  seers  of  earth, 
What  corpse  comes  next?    I  daily  look 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  39 

To  see  if  some  sage  hasn't  proved 

That  Jones  or  Brown  wrote  Lalla  Rookh. 
Or  Blifkins  lent  his  brains  to  Moore, 
Who  was  a  plagiarist  and  boor! 


Sensation,  have  your  servants  out — 
Let  them  be  watchful  and  alert; 
We'll  need  a  new  discovery  soon. 

Tell  them  to  dig  about  the  dirt, 
And  tear  off  Keats'  or  Shelley's  shroud, 
To  please  and  edify  the  crowd. 


40  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


DYING. 


Let  me  lie  upon  your  breast, 

Lift  me  up,  and  let  me  twine 
'Bound  your  neck  my  arms,  and  rest 

With  your  cheek  laid  close  to  mine. 
Kiss  me,  kiss  me  tenderly; 

I  am  dying  now,  you  know ; 
Though  you  feel  no  love  for  me, 

Clasp  me,  kiss  me,  ere  I  go. 


I  have  lingered  many  years, 

For  a  moment,  love,  like  this; 
Oh !  my  darling !  let  no  tears 

Mar  this  drop  of  earthly  b'liss ; 
Do  not  weep  because  you  know 

I  am  dropping  off  to  rest; 
I  am  very  glad  to  go, 

Life  was  wearisome  at  best. 


I  have  loved  you,  oh,  so  long, 
Seeing,  knowing,  in  my  brain, 

That  my  love  was  wild  and  wrong, 
Unrequitted,  hopeless,  vain ; 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  41 

Was  it  weak,  unwomanly, 

Thus  to  shrine  you  in  my  heart? 

Oh!  I  struggled  frantically — 
Bade  your  image  to  depart. 


There  are  hearts  that  love  will  pierce, 

Then  depart,  and  die  at  will ; 
Such  as  mine  burns  long  and  fierce, 

Till  the  heart  is  cold  and  still, 
Dropping,  sinking  off  to  rest, 

Fearing  naught  of  pain  or  strife: 
Kiss  me — clasp  me  to  your  breast, 

This  is  all  I  ask  of  lif  e. 


42  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


THE  KING  AND  SIREN. 


The  harsh  King — Winter — sat  upon  the  hills, 

And  reigned  and  ruled  the  earth  right  royally. 
He  locked  the  rivers,  lakes,  and  all  the  rills — 

' '  I  am  no  puny,  maudlin  king, ' '  quoth  he, 
"But  a  stern  monarch,  born  to  rule,  and  reign; 

And  I'll  show  my  power  to  the  end. 
The  Summer's  flowery  retinue  I've  slain, 

And  taken  the  bold  free  North  Wind  for  my 
friend. 

*'  Spring,  Summer,  Autumn — feeble  queens  they 
were, 

With  their  vast  troops  of  flowers,  birds  and  bees, 
Soft  winds,  that  made  the  long  green  grasses  stir — 

They  lost  their  own  identity  in  things  like  these ! 
I  scorn  them  all !  nay,  I  defy  them  all ! 

And  none  can  wrest  the  sceptre  from  my  hand. 
The  trusty  North  Wind  answers  to  my  call, 

And  breathes  his  icy  breath  upon  the  land." 

The  Siren — South  Wind — listening  the  while, 

Now  floated  airily  across  the  lea. 
"Oh  King!"  she  cried,  with  tender  tone  and  smile, 

"I  come  to  do  all  homage  unto  thee. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION,  43 

In  all  the  sunny  region,  whence  I  came, 

I  find  none  like  thee,  King,  so  brave  and  grand ! 

Thine  is  a  well  deserved,  unrivaled  fame; 
I  kiss,  in  awe,  dear  King,  thy  cold  white  hand." 

Her  words  were  pleasing,  and  most  fair  her  face. 

He  listened  wrapt,  to  her  soft-whispered  praise. 
She  nestled  nearer,  in  her  Siren  grace. 

"Dear  King,"  she  said,  "henceforth  my  voice 

shall  raise 
But  songs  of  thy  unrivaled  splendor !  Lo ! 

How  white  thy  brow  is!     How  thy  garments 

shine ! 
I  tremble  'neath  thy  beaming  glance,  for  Oh, 

Thy  wondrous  beauty  mak'st  thee  seem  divine." 

The  rain  King  listened,  in  a  trance  of  bliss, 

To  this  most  sweet-voiced  Siren  from  the  South, 
She  nestled  close,  and  pressed  a  lingering  kiss 

Upon  the  stern  white  pallor  of  his  mouth. 
She  hung  upon  his  breast,  she  pressed  his  cheek, 

And  he  was  nothing  loath  to  hold  her  there, 
While  she  such  tender,  loving  words  did  speak, 

And  combed  his  white  locks  with  her  fingers 
fair. 

And  so  she  bound  him,  in  her  Siren  wiles, 

And  stole  his  strength,  with  every  kiss  she  gave, 

And  stabbed  him  through  and  through,  with  tender 

smiles, 
And  with  her  loving  words,  she  dug  his  grave ; 


44  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION, 

And  then  she  left  him,  old,  and  weak,  and  blind, 
And  unlocked  all  the  rivers,  lakes,  and  rills, 
While  the  queen  Spring,  with  her  whole  troop, 

behind, 

Of  flowers,  and  birds,  and  bees,  came  o'er  the 
hills. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  45 


SUNSHINE  AND   SHADOW. 


Life  has  its  shadows,  as  well  as  its  sun; 

Its  lights  and  its  shades,  all  twined  together. 
I  tried  to  single  them  out,  one  by  one, 

Single  and  count  them,  determining  whether 
There  was  less  blue  than  there  was  gray, 
And  more  of  the  deep  night  than  of  the  day. 
But  dear  me,  dear  me,  my  task's  but  begun, 
And  I  am  not  half  way  into  the  sun. 


For  the  longer  I  look  on  the  bright  side  of  earth. 

The  more  of  the  beautiful  do  I  discover; 
And  really,  I  never  knew  what  life  was  worth 
Till  I  searched  the  wide  storehouse  of  happiness 

over. 

It  is  filled  from  the  cellar  well  up  to  the  skies, 
With  things  meant  to  gladden  the  heart  and  the 

eyes. 

The  doors  are  unlocked,  you  can  enter  each  room, 
That  lies  like  a  beautiful  garden  in  bloom. 


Yet  life  has  its  shadow,  as  well  as  its  sun; 
Earth  has  its  storehouse  of  joy  and  of  sorrow. 


46  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

But  the  first  is  so  wide — and  my  task's  but  begun — 
That  the  last  must  be  left  for  a  far  distant 

morrow. 

I  will  count  up  the  blessings  God  gave  in  a  row, 
But  dear  me !  when  I  get  through  them,  I  know 
I  shall  have  little  time  left  for  the  rest, 
For  life  is  a  swift-flowing  river  at  best. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  4V 


"WHATEVER  IS— IS  BEST." 


I  know,  as  my  life  grows  older, 

And  mine  eyes  have  clearer  sight — 
That  under  each  rank  Wrong,  somewhere, 

There  lies  the  root  of  Right. 
That  each  sorrow  has  its  purpose — 

By  the  sorrowing  oft  unguessed, 
But  as  sure  as  the  Sun  brings  morning, 

Whatever  is,  is  best. 


I  know  that  each  sinful  action, 
As  sure  as  the  night  brings  shade, 

Is  sometime,  somewhere,  punished, 
Tho'  the  hour  be  long  delayed. 

I  know  that  the  soul  is  aided 
Sometimes  by  the  heart's  unrest, 

And  to  grow,  means  often  to  suffer- 
But  whatever  is,  is  best. 


I  know  there  are  no  errors, 
In  the  great  Eternal  plan, 

And  all  things  work  together 
For  the  final  good  of  man. 


48  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

And  I  know  when  my  soul  speeds  onward 
In  the  grand,  Eternal  quest, 

I  shall  say,  as  I  look  back  earthward, 
Whatever  is,  is  best. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  49 


TRANSPLANTED. 


Where  the  grim  old  "Mount  of  Lamentation" 

Lifts  up  its  summit  like  some  great  dome, 
I  list  for  the  voices  of  Inspiration 

That  rang  o'er  the  meadows  and  hills  of  home. 
I  catch  sweet  sounds,  but  I  am  not  near  them, 

There  are  vast,  vague  oceans  between  us  rolled; 
Or  it  may  be  my  heart  is  too  full  to  hear  them 

With  the  eager  ear  that  it  lent  of  old. 


It  is  full  of  the  joy  of  to-day — and  to-morrow, 

Which  smiles  with  a  promise  of  fresh  delight ; 
And  yet  my  honey  is  galled  with  sorrow 

As  I  think  of  the  loved  ones  out  of  sight. 
I  wonder  so  soon  if  the  dear  old  places 

Are  growing  used  to  my  absent  feet, 
I  wonder  if  newer  and  fairer  faces 

To  the  hearts  that  housed  me  seem  just  as  sweet. 


I  know  on  the  world's  great  field,of  battle 

When  a  comrade  falls  out  how  the  ranks  close  in ; 

The  strife  goes  on  with  its  rush  and  rattle, 
And  who  can  tell  where  he  late  has  been? 


50  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

But  through  life  a  grafted  vine  I  may  wind  me 

About  old  Eastern  homes  at  length, 
The  roots  of  love  that  I  left  behind  me 

In  Western  soil  will  keep  their  strength. 
Though  dear  grows  the  "Mount  of  Lamentation." 

And  dear  the  ocean,  and  dear  the  shore, 
I  shall  love  the  land  of  my  Inspiration, 

Its  lakes,  its  valleys,  its  tried  hearts,  more. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  51 


WORLDLY  WISDOM. 


If  it  were  in  my  dead  Past's  power 

To  let  my  Present  bask 
In  some  lost  pleasure  for  an  hour, 

This  is  the  boon  I'd  ask: 

Re-pedestal  from  out  the  dust 
Where  long  ago  'twas  hurled, 

My  beautiful  incautious  trust 
In  this  unworthy  world. 

The  symbol  of  my  own  soul's  truth— 

I  saw  it  go  with  tears — 
The  sweet  unwisdom  of  my  youth — 

That  vanished  with  the  years. 

Since  knowledge  brings  us  only  grief, 

I  would  return  again 
To  happy  ignorance  and  belief 

In  motives  and  in  men. 

For  worldly  wisdom  learned  in  pain. 

Is  in  itself  a  cross, 
Significant  mayhap  of  gain, 

Yet  sign  of  saddest  loss. 


52  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


NEW  ORLEANS,  1885. 


A  queen  of  indolence  and  idle  grace, 

Robed  in  the  remnants  of  a  costly  gown, 
She  turns  the  languor  of  her  lovely  face 

Upon  Progression,  with  a  lazy  frown. 
Her  throne  is  built  upon  a  marshy  down; 

Malarial  mosses  wreathe  her,  like  old  lace. 
With  thin,   crossed   feet,   unshod,   and   bare   and 
brown, 

She  sits  indifferent  to  the  world's  swift  race. 


Across  the  seas  there  stalks  an  ogre  grim. 
Too  listless,  she,  for  even  Fear's  alarms, 

While  frightened  nations  rally  in  defense, 
She  lifts  her  smiling  Creole  eyes  to  him, 
And,  reaching  out  her  shapely,  unwashed  arms, 
She  clasps  her  rightful  lover — Pestilence. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  53 


THE  ROOM  BENEATH  THE  RAFTERS. 


Sometimes  when  I  have  dropped  asleep, 

Draped  in  a  soft  luxurious  gloom, 
Across  my  drowsy  mind  will  creep 

The  memory  of  another  room, 
Where  resinous  knots  in  roof  boards  made 
A  frescoing  of  light  and  shade, 
And  sighing  poplars  brushed  their  leaves 
Against  the  humbly  sloping  eaves. 


Again  I  fancy  in  my  dreams 

I'm  lying  in  my  trundle-bed. 
I  seem  to  see  the  bare  old  beams 

And  unhewn  rafters  overhead; 
The  hornet's  shrill  falsetto  hum 
I  hear  again,  and  see  him  come 
Forth  from  his  mud-walled  hanging  house, 
Dressed  in  his  black  and  yellow  blouse. 


There,  summer  dawns,  in  sleep  I  stirred, 
And  wove  into  my  fair  dream's  woof 

The  chattering  of  a  martin  bird, 
Or  rain-drops  pattering  on  the  roof. 


54  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Or,  half  awake,  and  half  in  fear, 
I  saw  the  spider  spinning  near 
His  pretty  qastle,  where  the  fly 
Should  come  to  ruin  by  and  by. 


And  there  I  fashioned  from  my  brain 
Youth's  shining  structures  in  the  air, 
I  did  not  wholly  build  in  vain, 

,For  some  were  lasting,  firm  and  fair. 
And  I  am  one  who  lives  to  say 
My  life  has  held  more  good  than  gray, 
And  that  the  splendor  of  the  real 
Surpassed  my  early  dream's  ideal. 


But  still  I  love  to  wander  back 

To  that  old  time,  and  that  old  place ; 
To  thread  my  way  o'er  Memory's  track, 
And  catch  the  early  morning's  grace 
In  that  quaint  room  beneath  the  rafter, 
That  echoed  to  my  childish  laughter; 
To  dream  again  the  dreams  that  grew 
More  beautiful  as  they  came  true. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  55 


MY  COMRADE. 


Out  from  my  window  westward 

I  turn  full  oft  my  face ; 
But  the  mountains  rebuke  the  vision 

That  would  encompass  space; 
They  lift  their  lofty  foreheads 

To  the  kiss  of  the  clouds  above, 
And  ask,  "With  all  our  glory, 

Can  we  not  win  your  love?" 


I  answer,  "No,  oh  mountains! 

I  see  that  you  are  grand ; 
But  you  have  not  the  breadth  and  beauty 

Of  the  fields  in  my  own  land; 
You  narrow  my  range  of  vision 

And  you  even  shut  from  me 
The  voice  of  my  old  comrade, 

The  West  Wind  wild  and  free." 


But  to-day  I  climbed  the  mountains 
On  the  back  of  a  snow-white  steed, 

And  the  West  Wind  came  to  greit  me— 
He  flew  on  the  wings  of  speed. 


56  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

His  charger,  and  mine  that  bore  me, 
Went  gaily  neck  to  neck. 

Till  the  town  in  the  valley  below  us 
Looked  like  a  small,  dark  speck. 


And  oh !  what  tales  he  whispered 

As  he  rode  there  by  me, 
Of  friends  whose  smiling  faces 

I  am  so  soon  to  see. 
And  the  mountains  frowned  in  anger, 

Because  I  balked  their  spite, 
And  met  my  old-time  comrade 

There  on  their  very  height; 


But  I  laughed  up  in  their  faces, 

As  I  rode  slowly  back, 
"While  the  Wind  went  faster  and  faster, 

Like  a  race-horse  on  the  track. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION,  57 


AT  AN  OLD  DRAWER. 


Before  this  scarf  was  faded, 

What  hours  of  mirth  it  knew; 
How  gayly  it  paraded 

From  smiling  eyes  to  view. 
The  days  were  tinged  with  glory, 

The  nights  too  quickly  sped, 
And  life  was  like  a  story 

Where  all  the  people  wed. 


Before  this  rosebud  wilted, 

How  passionately  sweet 
The  wild  waltz  swelled  and  lilted 

In  time  for  flying  feet ; 
How  loud  the  bassoons  muttered, 

The  horns  grew  madly  shrill, 
And  oh!  the  vows  lips  uttered 

That  hearts  could  not  fulfill. 


Before  this  fan  was  broken, 

Behind  its  lace  and  pearl 
What  whispered  words  were  spoken, 

What  hearts  were  in  a  whirl ; 


58  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

What  homesteads  were  selected 
In  Fancy's  realm  of  Spain, 

What  castles  were  erected 
Without  a  room  for  pain. 


When  this  odd  glove  was  mated, 

How  thrilling  seemed  the  play; 
Maybe  our  hearts  are  sated — 

We  tire  so  soon  to-day. 
O,  thrust  away  these  treasures, 

They  speak  the  dreary  truth; 
We  have  outgrown  the  pleasures 

And  keen  delights  of  youth. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  59 


SO  LONG  IN  COMING. 


When  shall  I  hear  the  thrushes  sing, 

And  see  their  graceful,  round  throats  swelling? 
When  shall  I  watch  the  bluebirds  bring 

The  straws  and  twiglets  for  their  dwelling? 
When  shall  I  hear  among  the  trees 

The  little  martial  partridge  drumming? 
Oh!  hasten!  sights  and  sounds  that  please — 

The  summer  is  so  long  in  coming. 


The  winds  are  talking  with  the  sun ; 

I  hope  they  will  combine  together 
And  melt  the  snow-drifts,  one  by  one, 

And  bring  again  the  golden  weather. 
Oh  haste,  make  haste,  dear  sun  and  wind, 

I  long  to  hear  the  brown  bee  humming; 
I  seek  for  blooms  I  cannot  find, 

The  summer  is  so  long  coming. 


The  winter  has  been  cold,  so  cold; 

Its  winds  are  harsh,  and  bleak,  and  dreary, 
And  all  its  sports  are  stale  and  old; 

We  wait  for  something  now  more  cheery. 


60  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Come  up,  0  summer,  from  the  south, 

And  bring  the  harps  your  hands  are  thrumming. 
We  pine  for  kisses  from  your  mouth ! 

Oh !  do  not  be  long  in  coming. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  61 


LAY  IT  AWAY. 


We  will  lay  our  summer  away,  my  friend, 

So  tenderly  lay  it  away. 
It  was  bright  and  sweet  to  the  very  end, 

Like  one  long,  golden  day. 
Nothing  sweeter  could  come  to  me, 

Nothing  sweeter  to  you. 
We  will  lay  it  away,  and  let  it  be, 

Hid  from  the  whole  world's  view. 


We  will  lay  it  away  like  a  dear,  dead  thing — 

Dead,  yet  forever  fair; 
And  the  fresh  green  robes  of  a  deathless  spring, 

Though  dead,  it  shall  always  wear. 
We  will  not  hide  it  in  grave  or  tomb, 

But  lay  it  away  to  sleep, 
Guarded  by  beauty,  and  light,  and  bloom, 

Wrapped  in  a  slumber  deep. 


We  were  willing  to  let  the  summer  go- 
Willing  to  go  our  ways ; 

But  never  on  earth  again  I  know 
Will  either  find  such  days. 


62  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

You  are  my  friend,  and  it  may  seem  strange, 

But  I  would  not  see  you  again; 
I  would  think  of  you,  though,  all  things  change, 

Just  as  I  knew  you  then. 


If  we  should  go  back  to  the  olden  place, 

And  the  summer  time  went,  too, 
It  would  be  like  looking  a  ghost  in  the  face, 

So  much  would  be  changed  and  new. 
"We  cannot  live  it  over  again, 

Not  even  a  single  day ; 
And  as  something  sweet,  and  free  from  pain, 

We  had  better  lay  it  away. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  63 


PERISHED. 


I  called  to  the  summer  sun, 

"Come  over  the  hills  to-day! 
Unlock  the  rivers,  and  tell  them  to  run, 

And  kiss  the  snow-drifts  and  melt  them  away." 
And  the  sun  came  over — a  tardy  lover — 
And  unlocked  the  river,  and  told  it  to  glide 
And  kissed  the  snow-drift  till  it  fainted  and  died. 

I  called  to  the  robin,  "Come  back! 

Come  up  from  the  south  and  sing!" 
And  robin  sailed  up  on  an  airy  track. 

And  smoothed  down  his  feathers  and  oiled  his 

wing. 

And  the  notes  came  gushing,  gurgling,  rushing, 
In  thrills  and  quavers,  clear,  mellow  and  strong, 
Till  the  glad  air  quivered  and  rang  with  song. 

I  said  to  the  orchard,  "Blow!" 
I  said  to  the  meadow,  "Bloom!" 

And  the  trees  stood  white,  like  brides  in  a  row, 
And  the  breeze  was  laden  with  rare  perfume. 

And  over  the  meadows,  in  lights  and  shadows, 

The  daisies  white  and  violets  blue, 

And    yellow-haired    buttercups    blossomed  and 
grew. 


64  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

I  called  to  a  hope,  that  died 
With  the  death  of  the  flowers  and  grass, 

"Come  back!  for  the  river  is  free  to  glide — 
The  robin  sings,  and  the  daisies  bloom."    Alas! 

For  the  hope  I  cherished  too  rudely  perished 

To  ever  awaken  and  live  again, 

Though  a  hundred  summers  creep  over  the  plain. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  65 


THE  BELLE'S  SOLILOQUY. 


Heigh  ho!  well,  the  season's  over! 

Once  again  we've  come  to  Lent! 
Programme's  changed  from  balls  and  parties— 

Now  we're  ordered  to  repent. 
Forty  days  of  self-denial! 

Tell  you  what  I  think  it  pays — 
Know't'l  freshen  my  complexion 

Going  slow  for  forty  days. 


No  more  savory  Frenchy  suppers — 

Such  as  Madame  R —  can  give. 
"Well,  I  need  a  little  thinning — 

Just  a  trifle — sure's  you  live! 
Sometimes  been  afraid  my  plumpness 

Might  grow  into  downright  fat. 
Rector  urges  need  of  fasting — 

Think  there's  lot  of  truth  in  that. 


We  must  meditate,  he  tells  ns, 
On  our  several  acts  of  sin. 

And  repent  them.    Let  me  see  now — 
"Whereabouts  shall  I  begin! 


66  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Flirting— yes,  they  say  'tis  wicked ; 

Well,  I'm  awful  penitent. 
(Wonder  if  my  handsome  major 

Goes  to  early  Mass  through  Lent?) 


Love  of  dress!  I'm  guilty  there,  too — 

Guess  it's  my  besetting  sin. 
Still  I'm  somewhat  like  the  lilies, 

For  I  neither  toil  nor  spin. 
Forty  days  I'll  wear  my  plainest — 

Could  repentance  be  more  true? 
What  a  saving  on  my  dresses ! 

They'll  make  over  just  like  new. 


Pride,  and  worldliness  and  all  that,, 

Rector  bade  us  pray  about 
Every  day  through  Lenten  season, 

And  I  mean  to  be  devout ! 
Papa  always  talks  retrenchment — 

Lent  is  just  the  very  thing. 
Hope  he'll  get  enough  in  pocket 

So  we'll  move  up  town  next  spring. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  67 


MY  VISION. 


"Wherever  my  feet  may  wander 

Wherever  I  chance  to  be, 
There  comes,  with  the  coming  of  even'  time 

A  vision  sweet  to  me. 
I  see  my  mother  sitting 

In  the  old  familiar  place, 
And  she  rocks  to  the  tune  her  needles  sing, 

And  thinks  of  an  absent  face. 


I  can  hear  the  roar  of  the  city 

About  me  now  as  I  write; 
But  over  an  hundred  miles  of  snow 

My  thought-steeds  fly  to-night, 
To  the  dear  little  cozy  cottage, 

And  the  room  where  mother  sits, 
And  slowly  rocks  in  her  easy  chair 

And  thinks  of  me  as  she  knits. 


Sometimes  with  the  merry  dancers 

When  my  feet  are  keeping  time, 
And  my  heart  beats  high,  as  young  hearts  will, 

To  the  music's  rhythmic  chime. 


68  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

My  spirit  slips  over  the  distance 

Over  the  glitter  and  whirl, 
To  my  mother  who  sits,  and  rocks,  and  knits, 

And  thinks  of  her  "little  girl." 


When  I  listen  to  voices  that  flatter, 

And  smile,  as  women  do, 
To  whispered  words  that  may  be  sweet, 

But  are  not  always  true ; 
I  think  of  the  sweet,  quaint  picture 

Afar  in  quiet  ways, 
And  I  know  one  smile  of  my  mother's  eyes 

Is  better  than  all  their  praise. 


And  I  know  I  can  never  wander 

Far  from  the  path  of  right, 
Though  snares  are  set  for  a  woman's  feet 

In  places  that  seem  most  bright. 
For  the  vision  is  with  me  always, 

Wherever  I  chance  to  be, 
Of  mother  sitting,  rocking  and  knitting, 

Thinking  and  praying  for  me. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  69 


DREAM-TIME. 


Throughout  these  mellow  autumn  days, 
All  sweet,  and  dim,  and  soft  with  haze, 
I  argue  with  my  unwise  heart, 
That  fain  would  choose  the  idler's  part. 

My  heart  says,  "Let  us  lie  and  dream 
Under  the  sunshine's  softened  beam, 
This  is  the  dream-time  of  the  year, 
When  Heaven  itself  seems  bending  near. 

"See  how  the  calm  waters  lie 
And  dream  beneath  the  arching  sky. 
The  sun  draws  on  a  veil  of  haze, 
And   dreams  away  these  golden  days. 

"Put  by  the  pen — lay  thought  aside, 
And  cease  to  battle  with  the  tide. 
Let  us,  like  Nature,  rest  and  dream 
And  float  with  the  current  of  the  stream.' 

So  pleads  my  heart.    I  answer  ' '  Nay, 
Work  waits  for  you  and  me  to-day. 
Behind  these  autumn  hours  of  gold 
The  winter  lingers,  bleak  and  cold. 


70  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

"And  those  who  dream  too  long  or  much, 
Must  waken,  shivering,  at  his  touch, 
With  naught  to  show  for  vanished  hours, 
But  dust  of  dreams  and  withered  flowers. 


"So  now,  while  days  are  soft  and  warm, 
We  must  make  ready  for  the  storm." 
Thus,  through  this  golden,  hazy  weather 
My  heart  and  I  converse  together. 


And  yet,  I  dare  not  turn  my  eyes 
To  pebbly  shores  or  tender  skies, 
Because  I  am  so  fain  to  do, 
E'en  as  my  heart  pleads  with  me  to. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  71 


SING  TO  ME. 


Sing  to  me !  something  of  sunlight  and  bloom, 
I  am  so  compassed  with  sorrow  and  gloom, 
I  am  so  sick  with  the  world's  noise  and  strife, — 
Sing  of  the  beauty  and  brightness  of  life — 
Sing  to  me,  sing  to  me! 


Sing  to  me!  something  that's  jubilant,  glad! 
I  am  so  weary,  my  soul  is  so  sad. 
All  my  earth  riches  are  covered  with  rust, 
All  my  bright  dreams  are  but  ashes  and  dust. 
Sing  to  me,  sing  to  me ! 


Sing  of  the  blossoms  that  open  in  spring, 

How  the  sweet  flowers  blow,  and  the  long  lichens 

cling, 

Say,  though  the  winter  is  round  about  me, 
There  are  bright  summers  and  springs  yet  to  be. 
Sing  to  me,  sing  to  me ! 


Sing  me  a  song  full  of  hope  and  of  truth, 
Brimming  with  all  the  sweet  fancies  of  youth! 


72  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Say,  though  my  sorrow  I  may  not  forget, 
I  have  not  quite  done  with  happiness  yet 
Sing  to  me,  sing  to  me ! 


Lay  your  soft  fingers  just  here,  on  my  cheek; 
Turn  the  light  lower — there — no,  do  not  speak, 
But  sing !    My  heart  thrills  at  your  beautiful  voice ; 
Sing  till  I  turn  from  my  grief  and  rejoice. 
Sing  to  me,  sing  to  me ! 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  73 


SUMMER  SONG. 


The  meadow  lark's  thrill  and  the  brown  thrush's 

whistle 

From  morning  to  evening  fill  all  the  sweet  air, 
And  my  heart  is  as  light  as  the  down  of  a  thistle — 

The  world  is  so  bright  and  the  earth  is  so  fair. 
There  is  life  in  the  wood,  there  is  bloom  on  the 

meadow; 
The  air  drips  with  songs  that  the  merry  birds 

sing. 

The  sunshine  has  won,  in  the  battle  with  shadow, 
And  she's  dressed  the  glad  earth  with  robes  of 
the  spring. 


The  bee  leaves  his  hive  for  the  field  of  red  clover 

And  the  vale  where  the  daisies  bloom  white  as 

the  snow, 
And  a  mantle  of  warm  yellow  sunshine  hangs  over 

The  calm  little  pond,  where  the  pale  lilies  grow. 
In  the  woodland  beyond  it,  a  thousand  gay  voices 

Are  singing  in  chorus  some  jubilant  air. 
The  bird  and  the  bee,  and  all  nature  rejoices, 

The  world  is  so  bright,  and  the  earth  is  so  fair. 


74  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

I  am  glad  as  a  child,  in  this  beautiful  weather; 

I  have  tossed  all  my  burdens  and  trials  away ; 
My  heart  is  as  light — yes,  as  light  as  a  feather;— 

I  am  care-free,  and  careless,  and  happy  to-day. 
Can  it  be  there   approaches  a   dark,   drear    to- 
morrow ? 

Can  shadows  e'er  fall  on  this  beautiful  earth? 
Ah !  to-day  is  my  own !  no  forebodings  of  sorrow 

Shall  darken  my  skies,   or  shall   dampen  my 
mirth. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  75 


A  TWILIGHT  THOUGHT. 


The  sweet  maid,  Day,  has  pillowed  her  head 
On  the  breast  of  her  dusky  lover,  Night. 

The  sun  has  made  her  a  couch  of  red, 
And  wove  her  a  mantle  of  soft  twilight; 

And  the  lover  kisses  the  maiden's  brow, 

As  low  on  her  couch,  she  sleep  eth  now. 

Here  at  my  window,  above  the  street, 

I  sit  as  the  day  lies  in  repose; 
And  I  list  to  the  ceaseless  tramp  of  feet, 

And  I  watch  the  human  tide  that  flows 
Upward  and  downward,  and  to  and  fro, 
As  the  waves  of  an  ocean  ebb  and  flow. 

Over  and  over  the  busy  town; 

Hither  and  thither  through  all  the  day, 
One  goes  up,  and  another  down, 

Each  in  his  own  allotted  way. 
Strangers  and  kinsmen  pass  and  meet, 
And  jar  and  jostle  upon  the  street. 

People  that  never  met  before, 
People  that  will  not  meet  again; 

A  careless  glance  of  the  eye,  no  more, 
And  both  are  lost  in  the  sea  of  men. 


76  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Strangers  divided  by  miles,  in  heart, 
Under  my  window  meet,  and  part. 

But  whether  their  feet  walk  up  or  down, 

Over  the  river,  east  or  west; 
"Whether  it's  in,  or  out  of  the  town, 

To  a  haunt  of  sin,  or  a  home  of  rest, — 
They  are  journeying  to  a  common  goal — 
There  is  one  last  point  for  every  soul! 

Strangers  and  kinsmen,  friend  and  foe, 
"Whether  their  aims  are  great  or  small, 

Whether  their  paths  are  high  or  low — 
There  is  one  last  resting-place  for  all. 

They  upward  and  onward,  go  surging  by 

Under  my  window — you  all  must  die. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  77 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  SEASON, 


Nay— do  not  bring  the  jewels— 

Away  with  that  robe  of  white, 
I  am  sick  of  the  ball  room,  sister — 

I  would  rather  stay  here,  to-night. 
"The  grandest  ball  of  the  season!" 

"The  upper-ten  thousands'  show!" 
Yes,  yes,  I  know  it,  my  darling, 

But  I  do  not  care  to  go. 


Last  night  I  was  thinking  deeply, 

Something  I  seldom  do. 
You  know  I  came  home  at  midnight, 

Well,  I  lay  awake  till  two. 
I  was  thinking  of  my  girlhood, 

Just  how  I  had  spent  its  years, 
And  I  blushed  for  shame,  my  darling, 

And  my  pillow  was  wet  with  tears. 


I  have  lived  in  a  whirl  of  fashion, 
I  have  kept  right  up  to  the  "style," 

I  have  learned  how  to  dance  the  "German," 
How  to  bow,  and  flirt  and  smile. 


78  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

I  have  worn  most  beautiful  dresses, 
Been  the  belle  of  many  a  ball. 

I  have  won  the  envy  of  women, 
And  the  praise  of  fops — that's  all. 


Does  any  one  really  respect  me  ? — 

Could  a  single  thing  be  said 
That  would  give  the  mourners  pleasure 

To-morrow,  if  I  were  dead? 
"She  wore  such  beautiful  dresses," 

"She's  a  dozen  strings  to  her  bow," 
"She  could  waltz  like  a  perfect  fairy"- 

Would  you  like  me  remembered  so? 


Well,  there's  nothing  else  to  remember — 

What  thing  have  I  ever  done 
That  has  made  a  soul  the  better 

Or  cheered  a  hapless  one? 
I  have  spent  my  time  and  money — 

The  best  of  my  fortune  and  days — 
In  gaining  the  envy  of  women 

And  making  the  poor  fops  gaze. 


I  am  going  to  be  a  woman, 
And  live  for  others  awhile — 

Forgetting  myself  for  a  season, 
Though  I  know  it  isn't  the  "'style.** 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  79 

I  am  in  no  mood  for  a  revel — 

Away  with  that  robe  of  white! 
And  I  will  stay  here,  my  darling, 

And  talk  with  my  heart  to-night 


80  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


JOY. 


My  heart  is  like  a  little  bird 

That  sits  and  sings  for  very  gladness. 
Sorrow  is  some  forgotten  word, 

And  so,  except  in  rhyme,  is  sadness. 


The  world  is  very  fair  to  me — 

Such  azure  skies,  such  golden  weather, 

I'm  like  a  long  caged  bird  set  free, 
My  heart  is  lighter  than  a  feather. 


I  rise  rejoicing  in  my  life ; 

I  live  with  love  for  God  and  neighbor; 
My  days  flow  on  unmarred  by  strife, 

And  sweetened  by  my  pleasant  labor. 


Oh  youth!  oh  spring!  oh  happy  days, 
Ye  are  so  passing  sweet,  and  tender, 

And  while  the  fleeting  season  stays, 
I'll  revel  care-free,  in  its  splendor. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION  81 


BIRD  OF  HOPE. 


Soar  not  too  high,  oh  bird  of  Hope  t 

Because  the  skies  are  fair ; 
The  tempest  may  come  on  apace 

And  overcome  thee  there. 

"When  far  above  the  mountain  tops 

Thou  soarest,  over  all — 
If,  then,  the  storm  should  press  thee  back, 

How  great  would  be  thy  fall ! 

And  thou  would 'st  lie  here  at  my  feet, 
A  poor  and  lifeless  thing, — 

A  torn  and  bleeding  birdling, 
With  a  limp  and  broken  wing. 

Sing  not  too  loud,  oh  bird  of  Hope ! 

Because  the  day  is  bright ; 
The  sunshine  cannot  always  last — 

The  morn  precedes  the  night. 

And  if  thy  song  is  of  the  day, 
Then  when  the  day  grows  dim, 

Forlorn  and  voiceless  thou  wouldst  sit 
Among  the  shadows  grim. 


82  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Oh !  I  would  have  thee  soar  and  sing, 
But  not  too  high,  or  loud, 

Remembering  that  day  meets  night—- 
The brilliant  sun  the  cloud. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  83 


A  GOLDEN  DAY. 


The  subtle  beanty  of  this  day 
Hangs  o'er  me  like  a  fairy  spell, 

And  care  and  grief  have  flown  away, 
And  every  breeze  sings,  "All  is  well." 

I  ask,  ''Holds  earth  or  sin,  or  woe?" 
My  heart  replies,  "I  do  not  know." 

Nay !    all  we  know,  or  feel,  my  heart, 
Today  is  joy  undimmed,  complete; 

In  tears  or  pain  we  have  no  part ; 
The  act  of  breathing  is  so  sweet, 

We  care  no  higher  joy  to  name. 
What  reck  we  now  of  wealth  or  fame? 

The  past — what  matters  it  to  me  ? 

The  pain  it  gave  has  passed  away. 
The  future — that  I  cannot  see ! 

I  care  for  nothing  save  today  — 
This  is  a  respite  from  all  care, 

And  trouble  flies — I  know  not  where. 

Go  on,  oh,  noisy,  restless  life ! 
Pass  by,  oh,  feet  that  seek  for  heights ! 


84  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

I  have  no  part  in  aught  of  strife ; 

I  do  not  want  your  vain  delights. 
The  day  wraps  round  me  like  a  spell 

And  every  breeze  sings,  "All  is  well." 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  85 


FADING. 


All  in  the  beautiful  Autumn  weather 

One  thought  lingers  with  me  and  stays ; 
Death  and  winter  are  coming  together, 

Though  both  are  veiled  by  the  amber  haze. 
I  look  on  the  forest  of  royal  splendor ! 

I  look  on  the  face  in  my  quiet  room ; 
A  face  all  beautiful,  sad  and  tender, 

And  both  are  stamped  with  the  seal  of  doom. 

All  through  the  days  of  Indian  summer, 

Minute  by  minute  and  hour  by  hour. 
I  feel  the  approach  of  a  dreaded  Comer — 

A  ghastly  presence  of  awful  power. 
I  hear  the  birds  in  the  early  morning, 

As  they  fly  from  the  fields  that  are  turning 

brown, 
And  at  noon  and  at  night  my  heart  takes  warning, 

For  the  maple  leaves  fall  down  and  down. 

The  sumac  bushes  are  all  a-flaming ! 

The  world  is  scarlet,  and  gold,  and  green, 
And  my  darling's  beautiful  cheeks  are  shaming 

The  painted  bloom  of  the  ballroom  queen. 


86  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Why  talk  of  winter,  amid  such  glory  ? 

Why  speak  of  death  of  a  thing  so  fair? 
Oh,  but  the  forest  king  white  and  hoary 

Is  weaving  a  mantle  for  both  to  wear. 


God !  if  I  could  by  the  soft  deceiving 

Of  forests  of  splendor  and  cheeks  of  bloom 
Lull  my  heart  into  sweet  believing 

Just  for  a  moment  and  drown  my  gloom ; 
If  1  could  forget  for  a  second  only 

And  rest  from  the  pain  of  this  awful  dread 
Of  days  that  are  coming  long  and  lonely 

When  the  Autumn  goes  and  she  is  dead. 


But  all  the  while  the  sun  gilds  wood  and  meadow 

And  the  fair  cheeks,  hectic  glows  and  cheats, 
I  know  grim  death  sits  veiled  in  shadow 

Weaving  for  both  their  winding  sheets. 
I  cannot  help,  and  I  cannot  save  her. 

My  hands  are  as  weak  as  a  babe's,  new-born; 
I  must  yield  her  up  to  One  who  gave  her 

And  wait  for  the  resurrection  morn. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  87 


ALL  THE  WORLD. 


All  the  world  is  full  of  babies, 

Sobbing,  sighing  everywhere, 
Looking  out  with  eyes  of  terror, 

Beating  at  the  empty  air. 
Do  they  see  the  strife  before  them, 

That  they  sob  and  tremble  so  ? 
Oh,  the  helpless,  frightened  babies ; 

Still  they  come  and  still  they  go. 


All  the  world  is  full  of  children, 

Laughing  over  little  joys; 
Sighing  over  little  troubles — 

Fingers  bruised  or  broken  toys — 
Wishing  to  be  older,  larger, 

Weeping  at  some  fancied  woe. 
Oh,  the  happy,  hapless,  children, 

Still  they  come  and  still  they  go. 


All  the  earth  is  full  of  lovers, 

Walking  slowly,  whispering  sweet, 

Dreaming  dreams  and  building  castles 
That  must  crumble  at  their  feet ; 


88  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Breaking  vows  and  burning  letters, 
Smiling  lest  the  world  shall  know. 

Oh,  the  foolish,  trusting  lovers, 
Still  they  come  and  still  they  go. 


All  the  world  is  full  of  people, 

Hurrying,  pushing,  rushing  by, 
Bearing  burdens,  carrying  crosses, 

Passing  onward  with  a  sigh; 
Some  like  us,  with  smiling  faces, 

And  their  heavy  hearts  below. 
Oh,  the  sad-eyed,  burdened  people  — 

How  they  come  and  how  they  go ! 


All  the  earth  is  full  of  corpses, 

Dust  and  bones,  laid  there  to  rest, 
This  the  end,  that  babes  and  children, 

Lovers,  people  find  at  best ; 
All  their  cares  and  all  their  burdens, 

All  their  sorrows,  wearing  so— 
Oh,  the  silent,  happy  corpses, 

Sleeping  soundly,  lying  low. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION,  89 


LINES. 


Dedicated  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  D.  Atwood  upon  the 
celebration  of  their  silver  wedding,  August  25th, 
1874. 

The  harvest-moon  of  wedded  love, 

Fair  in  the  heavens  sailing, 
Has  reached  mid-height,  and,  clear  and  bright, 

Gives  little  sign  of  paling. 

Since  first,  above  the  horizon, 

The  silvery  crescent  lifted, 
The  clouds  of  five-and-twenty  years 

Have  o  'er  its  surface  drifted. 

But,  while  the  days  have  come  and  gone, 
Though  many  a  changing  "morrow," 

The  growing  moon  sailed  up  and  on 
Above  the  hills  of  sorrow. 

And,  though  with  years  came  blinding  tears, 

The  guiding  moon  grew  brighter ; 
It  gave  relief,  in  time  of  grief — 

Made  heavy  burdens  lighter. 


90  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

One  quarter  of  one  hundred  years 
It  has  been  growing,  filling, 

Till,  round  and  bright,  its  silvery  light 
On  all  tonight  is  spilling. 


Oh,  harvesters  on  life's  great  plain! 

The  young  sheaves  shining  'round  you 
Prove  that  you  have  not  toiled  in  vain— 

Prove  that  God's  blessing  found  you. 


Smile  in  the  moonlight's  silver  gleam, 
Rejoice  in  harvest  weather ; 

Ye  know  ye  may  not  always  keep 
The  precious  sheaves  together ! 


Shine  on,  oh  moon  of  wedded  bliss ! 

Live  on  through  many  a  morrow, 
Till  from  the  sun  of  Immortal  Love 

Its  golden  light  you  borrow. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  91 


A  FRAGMENT. 


Your  words  came  just  when  needed.   Like  a  breeze, 
Blowing  and  bringing  from  the  wide  salt  sea 
Some  cooling  spray,  to  meadow  scorched  with  heat 
And  choked  with  dust  and  clouds  of  sifted  sand, 
That  hateful  whirlwinds,  envious  of  its  bloom, 
Had  tossed  upon  it.    But  the  cool  sea  breeze 
Came  laden  with  the  odors  of  the  sea 
And  damp  with  spray,  that  laid  the  dust  and  sand 
And  brought  new  life  and  strength  to  blade  and 

bloom, 

So  words  of  thine  came  over  miles  to  me, 
Fresh  from  the  mighty  sea,  a  true  friend's  heart, 
And  brought  me  hope,  and  strength,  and  swept 

away 

The  dusty  webs  that  human  spiders  spun 
Across  my  path.     Friend — and  the  word  means 

much — 

So  few  there  are  who  reach  like  thee,  a  hand 
Up  over  all  the  barking  curs  of  spite 
And  give  the  clasp,  when  most  its  need  is  felt; 
Friend,  newly  found,  accept  my  full  heart's  thanks. 


92  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


THE  CHANGE, 


She  leaned  out  into  the  soft  June  weather, 
With  her  long  loose  tresses  the  night  breeze 
played; 

Her  eyes  were  as  blue  as  the  bells  on  the  heather : 
Oh,  what  is  so  fair  as  a  fair  young  maid ! 


She  folded  her  hands,  like  the  leaves  of  a  lily, 
"My  life,"  she  said,  "is  a  night  in  June, 

Fair  and  quiet,  and  calm  and  stilly ; 
Bring  me  a  change,  oh  changeful  moon! 


"Who  would  drift  on  a  lake  forever T 
Young  hearts  weary — it  is  not  strange, 

And  sigh  for  the  beautiful  bounding  river ; 
New  moon,  true  moon,  bring  me  a  change !" 


The  rose  that  rivaled  her  maiden  blushes 

Dropped  from  her  breast,  at  a  stranger's  feet; 

Only  a  glance ;  but  the  hot  blood  rushes 
To  mantle  a  fair  face,  shy  and  sweet. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  93 

To  and  fro,  while  the  moon  is  waning, 
They  walk,  and  the  stars  shine  on  above ; 

And  one  is  in  earnest,  and  one  is  feigning — 
Oh,  what  is  so  sweet,  as  a  sweet  young  love  ? 


A  young  life  crushed,  and  a  young  heart  broken, 
A  bleak  wind  blows  through  the  lovely  bower, 

And  all  that  remains  of  the  love  vows  spoken — 
Is  the  trampled  leaf  of  a  faded  flower. 


The  night  is  dark,  for  the  moon  is  failing — 
And  what  is  so  pale,  as  a  pale  old  moon ! 

Cold  is  the  wind  through  the  tree  tops  wailing — 
Woe  that  the  change  should  come  so  soon. 


94  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


OLD. 


They  stood  together  at  the  garden  gate ; 
They  heard  the  night  bird  calling  to  his  mate; 

The  sun  had  set, 

And  all  the  vines  upon  the  summer  bowers, 
The  long  green  grasses,  and  the  blooming  flowers 

Were  dewy  wet. 

The  sun's  last  rays  had  lit  the  Western  skies 
And  dipped  the  mass  of  clouds  in  golden  dyes 

Brilliant  and  grand. 
They  stood  in  silence  for  a  little  while, 
And  then  he  turned,  and  with  a  tender  smile 

He  took  her  hand. 


' '  Of  all  the  sweet  days  we  have  known,  my  friend, ' ' 
He  said  half  sadly,  ' '  This  will  be  the  end. 

I  grieve  to  go, 

Loving,  as  I  shall  never  love  again ; 
It  rends  my  heart-strings,  and  it  gives  me  pain, 

But  well  I  know 

"I  could  not  make  you  happy  with  my  love, 
You,  tender  hearted,  gentle  as  a  dove, 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  95 

And  I— oh,  well! 

I  cannot  grovel  on  in  this  dull  life. 
How  my  soul  yearns  for  scenes  of  noise  and  strife 

No  tongue  can  tell. 


And  so  I  give  you  back  the  pledge  you  gave, 
I  should  but  drag  you  to  an  early  grave 

With  my  unrest. 

You  are  unfettered;  but  here  at  your  feet 
I  leave  my  heart;  oh,  may  you  be,  my  sweet, 

Forever  blest." 


She  drew  from  off  her  hand  the  hoop  of  gold 
(Dearer  to  her  by  far  than  wealth  untold) 

And  gave  to  him, 

And  as  she,  slow  and  silent,  moved  away, 
Her  life  like  all  that  Western  sky  grew  gray 

And  bleak  and  grim. 


He  walks  to-day,  with  kings  upon  the  earth ; 
He  dwells  in  scenes  of  revelry  and  mirth, 

With  naught  of  care. 

And  she — the  sun  that  set  for  her  in  deepest  gloom, 
And  never  rose,  will  rise  beyond  the  tomb 

And  meet  her  there. 


96  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


THE  MUSICIANS. 


The  strings  of  my  heart  were  strung  by  Pleasure, 

And  I  laughed  when  the  music  fell  on  my  ear, 
For  he  and  Mirth  played  a  joyful  measure, 

And  they  played  so  loud  that  I  could  not  hear 
The  wailing  and  mourning  of  souls  a-weary — 

The  strains  of  sorrow  that  floated  around, 
For  my  heart's  notes  rang  out  loud  and  cheery, 

And  I  heard  no  other  sound. 


Mirth  and  Pleasure,  the  music  brothers, 

Played  louder  and  louder  in  joyful  glee ; 
But  sometimes  a  discord  was  heard  by  others — 

Though  only  the  rhythm  was  heard  by  me. 
Louder  and  louder,  and  faster  and  faster 

The  hands  of  the  brothers  played  strain  on  strain, 
When  all  of  a  sudden  a  Mighty  Master 

Swept  them  aside ;  and  Pain, 


Pain,  the  musician,  the  soul-refiner, 

Restrung  the  strings  of  my  quivering  heart, 

And  the  air  that  he  played  was  a  plaintiff  minor, 
So  sad  that  the  tear-drops  were  forced  to  start ; 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  97 

Each  note  was  an  echo  of  awful  anguish, 
As  shrill  as  solemn,  as  sharp  as  slow, 

And  my  soul  for  a  season,  seemed  to  languish 
And  faint  with  its  weight  of  woe. 


With  skilful  hands  that  were  never  weary, 

This  Master  of  Music  played  strain  on  strain, 
And  between  the  bars  of  the  miserere, 

He  drew  up  the  strings  of  my  heart  again, 
And  I  was  filled  with  a  vague,  strange  wonder, 

To  see  that  they  did  not  snap  in  two. 
"They    are    drawn    so    tight,    they    will    break 
asunder, ' ' 

I  thought,  but  instead,  they  grew. 


In  the  hands  of  the  Master,  firmer  and  stronger; 

And  I  could  hear  on  the  stilly  air — 
Now  my  ears  were  deafened  by  Mirth  no  longer — 

The  sound  of  sorrow,  and  grief,  and  despair; 
And  my  soul  grew  kinder  and  tender  to  others, 

My  nature  grew  sweeter,  my  mind  grew  broad, 
And  I  held  all  men  to  be  my  brothers, 

Linked  by  the  chastening  rod. 


My  soul  was  lifted  to  God  and  heaven, 
And  when  on  my  heart-strings  fell  again 

The  hands  of  Mirth,  and  Pleasure,  even, 
There  was  never  a  discord  to  mar  the  strain. 


98  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

For  Pain,  the  musician,  and  soul-refiner, 
Attuned  the  strings  with  a  master  hand, 

And  whether  the  music  be  major  or  minor, 
It  is  always  sweet  and  grand. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  99 


THE  DOOMED  CITY'S  PRAYER. 


I  heard  a  low  sound,  like  a  troubled  soul  praying : 

And  the  winds  of  a  winter  night  brought  it  to  me. 
'Twas  the  doomed  city's  voice:  "Oh,  kind  snow," 
it  was  saying, 

"Come  cover  my  ruins,  so  ghastly  to  see. 
I  am  robbed  of  my  beauty,  and  shorn  of  my  glory ; 

And  the  strength  that  I  boasted — where  is  it  to- 
day? 
I  am  down  in  the  dust ;  and  my  pitiful  story 

Makes  tearless  eyes  weep  and  impious  lips  pray. 


"I — I,  who  have  reveled  in  pomp  and  in  power, 

Am  down  on  my  knees,  with  my  face  in  the  dust ; 
But  yesterday  queen,  with  a  queen's  royal  dower, 

To-day  I  am  glad  of  a  crumb  or  a  crust. 
But  yesterday  reigning,  a  grand,  mighty  city, 

The  pride  of  the  Nation,  and  queen  of  the  West ; 
To-day  I  am  gazed  at,  an  object  of  pity, 

A  charity  child,  asking  alms,  at  the  best. 

"My  strength,  and  my  pride,  and  my  glory  de- 
parted, 

My  fair  features  scorched  by  the  fire  fiend's 
breath, 


100  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Is  it  strange  that  I'm  soul-sick,    and    sorrowful 

hearted  ? 
Is  it  strange  that  my  thoughts  run  on  ruin  and 

death? 

Oh,  white,  fleecy  clouds  that  are  drooping  above  me, 
Hark,  hark  to  my  pleadings,  and  answer  my 

sighs, 

And  let  down  the  beautiful  snow,  if  you  love  me, 
To  cover  my  wounds  from  all  pitying  eyes. 


"I  am  hurled  from  my  throne,  but  not  hurled  down 

forever ; 
I  shall  rise  from  the  dust,  I  shall  live  down  my 

woes — 
But  my  heart  lies,  to-day,  like  a  dumb,  frozen 

river; 
When  to  thaw  out  and  flow  again,  God  only 

knows. 
Oh,  sprites  of  the  air!   I  beseech  you  to  weave  me 

A  mantle  of  white  snow,  and  beautiful  rime 
To  cover  my  unsightly  ruins ;  then  leave  me 
In  the  hands  of  the  healer  of  all  wounds — 'Old 
Time.'  " 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  101 


DAFT. 


In  the  warm  yellow  smile  of  the  morning, 

She  stands  at  the  lattice  pane, 
And  watches  the  strong  young  binders 

Stride  down  to  the  fields  of  grain, 
And  she  counts  them  over  and  over 

As  they  pass  her  cottage  door: 
Are  they  six,  she  counts  them  seven — 

Are  they  seven,  she  counts  one  more. 


When  the  sun  swings  high  in  the  heavens, 

And  the  reapers  go  shouting  home, 
She  calls  to  the  household,  saying, 

"Make  haste!   for  the  binders  have  come! 
And  Johnnie  will  want  his  dinner — 

He  was  always  a  hungry  child;" 
And  they  answer,  "Yes,  it  is  waiting;" 

Then  tell  you,  "Her  brain  is  wild." 


Again,  in  the  hush  of  the  evening, 
When  the  work  of  the  day  is  done, 

And  the  binders  go  singing  homeward 
In  the  last  red  rays  of  the  sun, 


102  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION, 

She  will  sit  at  the  threshold  waiting, 
And  her  withered  face  lights  with  joy: 

"Come,  Johnnie,"  she  says,  as  they  pass  her, 
"Come  into  the  house,  my  boy." 


Five  summers  ago  her  Johnnie 

Went  out  in  the  smile  of  the  morn, 
Singing  across  the  meadow, 

Striding  down  through  the  corn — 
He  towered  above  the  binders, 

Walking  on  either  side, 
And  the  mother's  heart  within  her 

Swelled  with  exultant  pride. 


For  he  was  the  light  of  the  household — 

His  brown  eyes  were  wells  of  truth, 
And  his  face  was  the  face  of  the  morning, 

Lit  with  its  pure,  fresh  youth, 
And  his  song  rang  out  from  the  hilltops 

Like  the  mellow  blast  of  a  horn, 
And  he  strode  o'er  the  fresh  shorn  meadows, 

And  down  through  the  rows  of  corn. 


But  hushed  were  the  voices  of  singing, 
Hushed  by  the  presence  of  death, 

As  back  to  the  cottage  they  bore  him — 
In  the  noontide's  scorching  breath, 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  103 

For  the  heat  of  the  sun  had  slain  him, 
Had  smitten  the  heart  in  his  breast, 

And  he  who  had  towered  above  them 
Lay  lower  than  all  the  rest. 


The  grain  grows  ripe  in  the  sunshine, 

And  the  summers  ebb  and  flow, 
And  the  binders  stride  to  their  labor 

And  sing  as  they  come  and  go ; 
But  never  again  from  the  hilltops 

Echoes  the  voice  like  a  horn ; 
Never  up  from  the  meadows, 

Never  back  from  the  ~orn. 


Yet  the  poor,  crazed  brain  of  the  mother 

Fancies  him  always  near ; 
She  is  blest  in  her  strange  delusion, 

For  she  knoweth  no  pain  nor  fear, 
And  always  she  counts  the  binders 

As  they  pass  her  cottage  door ; 
Are  they  six,  she  counts  them  seven ; 

Are  they  seven,  she  counts  them  more. 


104  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION, 


HUNG. 


Nine  o'clock,  and  the  sun  shines  as  yellow  and 

warm 

As  though  'twere  a  fete  day.     I  wish  it  would 
storm: 

Wish  the  thunder  would  crash, 

And  the  red  lightning  flash, 

And  lap  the  black  clouds  with  its  serpentine  tongue. 
The  day  is  too  calm  for  a  man  to  be  hung. 

Hung !    Ugh,  what  a  word ! 
The  most  heartless  and  horrible  ear  ever  heard. 


He  has  murdered,  and  plundered,  and  robbed,  so 

"they  say"; 
Been  a  scourge  of  the  country  for  many  a  day. 

He  was  lawless  and  wild ; 

Man,  woman  or  child 

Met  no  mercy,  no  pity,  if  found  in  his  path ; 
He  was  worse  than  a  beast  of  the  woods,  in  his 
wrath. 

And  yet — to  be  hung, 

Oh,  my  God !  to  be  swung 
By  the  neck  to  and  fro  for  the  rabble  to 

The  thought  sickens  me. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  105 

Thirty  minutes  past  nine.  How  the  time  hurries  by, 
But  the  half  hour  remains — at  ten  he  will  die. 

Die?    No!    He'll  be  killed! 

For  God  never  willed 

Men  should  die  in  this  way. 
' '  Vengeance  is  mine, ' '  He  saith.    ' '  I  will  repay. ' ' 

Yet  what  could  be  done 

With  this  wild,  lawless  one ! 
No  prison  could  hold  him,  and  so — he  must  swing. 

It's  a  horrible  thing! 

Outcast,  desperado,  fiend,  knave;  all  of  these 
And  more.    But  call  him  whatever  you  please, 

I  cannot  forget 

He's  a  mortal  man  yet: 

That  he  once  was  a  babe  and  was  hushed  into  rest, 
And  fondled  and  pressed  to  a  woman's  warm 
breast. 

Was  sung  to  and  rocked, 

And  when  he  first  walked 
With  his  weak  little  feet,  he  was  petted  and  told 
He  was  "mamma's  own  pet,  worth  his  whole  weight 
in  gold." 

And  this  is  the  end 
Of  a  God-given  life.    Just  think  of  it,  friend ! 

Hark !  hear  you  that  chime  ?  'Tis  the  clock  strik- 
ing ten. 

The  dread  weight  falls  down,  with  a  sound  like 
"Amen." 


106  fOEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Does  murder  pay  murder  ?    Do  two  wrongs  make  a 
right  ? 

Oh,  that  horrible  sight ! 

I  am  shut  in  my  room  and  have  covered  my  face, 
But  the  dread  scene  has  followed  me  into  this  place. 

I  see  that  strange  thing, 

Like  a  clock  pendulum,  swing 
To  and  fro,  in  the  air,  back  and  forth,  to  and  fro. 

One  moment  ago 
'Twas  a  man  in  God's  image.    Now  hide  it,  kind 

grave. 
Oh,  God,  what  an  end  to  the  life  that  you  gave ! 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  107 


WHEN  I  AM  DEAD. 


When  I  am  dead,  if  some  chastened  one, 

Seeing  the  ''item,"  or  hearing  it  said 
That  my  play  is  over  and  my  part  done, 

And  I  lie  asleep  in  my  narrow  bed — 
If  I  could  know  that  some  soul  would  say, 

Speaking  aloud  or  silently, 
"In  the  heat  and  the  burden  of  the  day 

She  gave  a  refreshing  draught  to  me;" 


Or,  "When  I  was  lying  nigh  unto  death 

She  nursed  me  to  life  and  to  strength  again, 
And  when  I  labored  and  struggled  for  breath 

She  smoothed  and  quieted  down  my  pain ; ' ' 
Or,  "When  I  was  groping  in  grief  and  doubt, 

Lost,  and  turned  from  the  light  o'  the  day, 
Her  hand  reached  me  and  helped  me  out 

And  led  me  up  to  the  better  way;" 


Or,  "When  I  was  hated  and  shunned  by  all, 
Bowing  under  my  sin  and  my  shame, 

She,  once  in  passing  me  by,  let  fall 
Words  of  pity  and  hope,  that  came 


108  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Into  my  heart  like  a  blessed  calm 
Over  the  waves  of  the  stormy  sea, 

Words  of  comfort,  like  oil  and  balm, 

She  spake,  and  the  desert  blossomed  for  me;" 


Better,  by  far,  than  a  marble  tomb — 

Than  a  monument  towering  over  my  head 
(What  shall  I  care,  in  my  quiet  room, 

For  headboard  or  footboard  when  I  am  dead?) ; 
Better  than  glory,  or  honors,  or  fame 

(Though  I  am  striving  for  those  to-day), 
To  know  that  some  heart  would  cherish  my  name 

And  think  of  me  kindly,  with  blessings,  alway. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  109 


IN  MEMORY  OF  MISS  JENNY 
BLANCHARD. 


Across  the  sodden  fields  we  gaze, 

To  woodlands,  painted  gold  and  brown ; 

To  hills  that  hide  in  purple  haze 
And  proudly  wear  the  Autumn's  crown. 

Oh,  lavish  Autumn !  fair,  we  know, 
And  yet  we  cannot  deem  her  so. 


The  blossoms  had  their  day ; 

To  grasses  and  to  green-hung  trees. 
They  lived,  grew  old  and  passed  away. 

And  yet,  not  satisfied  with  these, 
The  cruel  Autumn  will  not  pass 

Without  this  keen,  fell  stroke.    Alas ! 


"Alas!"  we  cry,  because  God's  veays 
Seem  so  at  variance  with  our  own, 

And,  grieving  through  the  nights  and  days, 
We  see  not  that  His  love  was  shown 

In  gathering  to  His  "Harvest  Home" 
Our  lost  one,  from  the  grief  to  come. 


110  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Oh,  tears !  she  will  not  have  to  weep ! 

Oh,  woes !  she  will  not  have  to  bear ! 
For  her,  who  fell  so  soon  asleep, 

No  furrowed  face,  no  whitened  hair. 
And  yet  we  would  have  given  her  these 

In  lieu  of  heavenly  victories. 


How  weak  the  strongest  mortal  love ! 

How  selfish  in  its  tenderness ! 
How  God's  angelic  host  above 

Must  wonder  at  our  blind  distress ! 
We  see  her  still  grave,  dark  and  dim, 

And  they  see  only  Heaven  and  Him. 


Perpetual  youth !    Oh,  priceless  boon ! 

Forever  youthful,  never  old ! 
How  can  we  think  she  died  too  soon  ? 

What  though  life's  story  was  half  told? 
Wiser  than  all  earth  seers,  to-day, 

Is  this  fair  soul  that  passed  away. 


Magician,  sage,  philosopher, 

With  all  their  vast  brain- wealth  combined, 
Are  only  babes  compared  with  her : 

This  soul  that  left  the  "things  behind" 
And,  "reaching  to  the  things  before," 

Gained  God,  through  Christ,  forevermore. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  Ill 


IN  MEMORY  OF  J.  B. 


Brave  heart,  whose  bed  has  now  been  made 

A  twelve  month  neath  the  grasses, 
Checkered  by  sunshine  and  by  shade, 

Where  every  breeze  that  passes 
Hushes  its  song  and  sighs  along, 

With  sorrow  in  its  cadence, 
Not  thinking  how  thy  sainted  brow 

Glows  with  a  Christly  radiance. 


Do  spirits  hover  in  the  air? 

Do  the  dear  dead  ones  never 
Float  on  the  gentle  zyphers  near 

Out  of  the  vast  forever? 
Somehow  to-day  my  thoughts  will  stray 

To  you,  oh  friend,  in  slumber! 
You  seem  so  near,  I  feel  you  here, 

One  of  the  angel  number. 


Oh,  face  I  nerer  looked  upon ! 

Oh,  quiet,  dreamless  sleeper! 
How  strange  that  when  you  journeyed  on 

With  death,  the  mighty  reaper, 


112  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

I  missed  you  so.    Do  angels  know, 

Up  in  the  City's  splendor, 
When  hearts  on  earth  embalm  their  worth, 

And  are  they  glad,  I  wonder  ? 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  113 


BIRD  OF  HOPE. 


Oh,  Bird  of  Hope!  soar  not  too  high 

Because  the  skies  are  fair; 
The  tempest  may  come  on  apace 

And  overcome  thee  there. 

When  high  above  the  mountain  tops 

Thou  soarest  over  all, 
If  then  the  storm  should  press  thee  back 

How  great  would  be  thy  fall ! 

And  thou  wouldst  lie  here  at  my  feet, 

A  poor  and  lifeless  thing — 
A  torn  and  bleeding  birdling,  with 

A  limp  and  broken  wing. 

Sing  not  too  loud,  oh,  bird  of  hope ! 

Because  the  day  is  bright; 
The  sunshine  cannot  always  last — 

The  morn  precedes  the  night. 

And  if  thy  song  is  of  the  day, 
Then,  when  the  day  grows  dim, 

Forlorn  and  voiceless,  thou  wilt  sit 
Among  the  shadows  grim. 


114  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Oh!  I  would  have  thee  soar  and  sing, 
But  not  too  high  and  loud : 

Remembering  that  day  meets  night — 
The  brilliant  sun  the  cloud. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  115 


GHOSTS. 


There  are  ghosts  in  the  room, 
As  I  sit  here  alone,  from  the  dark  corners  there 

They  come  out  of  the  gloom 

And  they  stand  at  my  side  and  they  lean  on  my 
chair. 


There's  the  ghost  of  a  Hope 
That  lighted  my  days  with  a  fanciful  glow ; 

In  her  hand  is  the  rope 

That  strangled  her  life  out.    Hope  was  slain  long 
ago. 


But  her  ghost  comes  to-night, 
With  its  skeleton  face  and  expressionless  eyes, 

And  it  stands  in  the  light 

And  mocks  me  and  jeers  me  with  sobs  and  with 
sighs. 


There's  a  ghost  of  a  Joy, 
A  frail,  fragile  thing,  and  I  prized  it  too  much, 

And  the  hands  that  destroy 
Clasped  it  close,  and  it  died  at  the  withering  touch. 


116  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

There's  a  ghost  of  a  Love, 

Born  with  Joy,  reared  with  Hope,  died  in  pain  and 
unrest ; 

But  he  towers  above 
All  the  others — this  ghost :  yet  a  ghost  at  the  best. 


I  am  weary,  and  fain 
Would  forget  all  these  dead ;  but  the  gibbering  host 

Make  my  struggle  in  vain. 
In  each  shadowy  corner  there  lurketh  a  ghost. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  117 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS. 


Out  of  the  midnight,  rayless  and  starless, 

Into  the  morning's  golden  light; 
Out  of  the  clutches  of  wrong  and  ruin, 

Into  the  arms  of  truth  and  right; 
Out  of  the  ways  that  are  ways  of  sorrow; 

Out  of  the  paths  that  are  paths  of  pain — 
Yea!  out  of  the  depths  has  a  soul  arisen, 

And  "one  that  is  lost  is  found  again!" 


Lost  in  the  sands  of  an  awful  desert! 

Lost  in  a  region  of  imps  accursed, 
With 'bones  of  a  victim  to  mark  his  pathway, 

And  burning  lava  to  quench  his  thirst. 
Lost  in  the  darkness,  astray  in  the  shadows — 

Father  above,  do  we  pray  in  vain? 
Hark!    on  the  winds  come  gleeful  tidings: 

Lo,  "he  that  was  lost  is  found  again." 


Found!  and  the  sunlight  of  God's  great  mercy 
Dispels  the  shadows  and  brings  the  morn; 

Found !  and  the  hosts  of  the  dear  Redeemer 
Are  shouting  aloud  o'er  a  soul  re-born. 


118  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Plucked,  like  a  brand  from  the  conflagration; 

Cleansed,  like  a  garment  free  from  stain; 
Saved — pray  God — for  now  and  forever — 

Lost  for  a  season,  but  found  again. 


"Out  of  the  depths,"  by  the  grace  of  heaven, 

Out  of  the  depths  of  woe  and  shame. 
And  he  strikes  his  name  from  the  roll  of  drunkards, 

To  aarve  it  again  on  the  heights  of  fame, 
"Wine  is  a  mocker,  strong  drink  is  raging" — 

Glory  to  God,  he  has  snapped  the  chain 
That  bound  him  with  fetters  of  steel  and  iron ; 

And  ' '  he  that  was  lost  is  found  again. ' ' 


Down  with  the  cup,  though  it  gleams  like  rubies ! 

Down  with  the  glass,  though  it  sparkle  ancl  shine ! 
"It  bites  like  a  serpent,  and  stings  like  an  adder" — 

There  is  shame,  and  sorrow,  and  woe  in  wine. 
Keen  though  the  sword  be,  and  deadly  its  mission, 

Three  times  its  number  the  wine  cup  has  slain. 
God,  send  thy  grace  upon  these  it  has  fettered ; 

God  grant  the  lost  may  be  found  again. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  119 


MISTAKES. 


My  life  is  fnll  of  sad  mistakes, — 

Today  I  was  thinking  about  them, 
And  thinking  of  all  that  I  might  have  been 

If  I  had  but  lived  without  them. 
So  many  times  have  I  laid  my  plan, 

Only  to  spoil  it  in  doing; 
And  much  of  the  work  that  the  world  calls  good 

Has  left  me  cause  for  rueing. 


Each  thing  that  I  do  is  like  the  page 

Of  a  hurriedly  written  letter ; — 
Full  of  good  thoughts  perhaps,  but  the  blots 

Prove  that  it  might  be  better. 
I  have  wished  for  the  world's  applause,  and  thought 

To  make  it  praise  and  wonder, 
But  my  noblest  aim  and  best  laid  plan 

Was  sure  to  be  spoiled  by  a  blunder. 


I  think  I  have  lived  too  far  from  God, — 

Not  that  I  ever  doubt  Him, 
But  feeling  too  sure  of  my  strength,  I've  tried 

To  do  some  things  without  Him. 


120  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

And  so  we  shall  always  make  mistakes, 
And  always  our  errors  be  racing, 

Until  we  reach  up  for  the  Guiding  Hand, 
"Whatever  we  may  be  doing. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  121 


PRESUMPTION. 


Whenever  I  am  prone  to  doubt  or  wonder — 

I  check  myself,  and  say,  "That  mighty  One 
Who  made  the  solar  system  cannot  blunder — 

And  for  the  best  all  things  are  being  done." 
Who  set  the  stars  on  their  eternal  courses 

Has  fashioned  this  strange  earth  by  some  sure 

plan. 
Bow  low,  bow  low  to  those  majestic  forces 

Nor  dare  to  doubt  their  wisdom — puny  man. 

You  cannot  put  one  little  star  in  motion, 

You  cannot  shape  one  single  forest  leaf, 
Nor  fling  a  mountain  up,  nor  sink  an  ocean, 

Presumptuous  pigmy,  large  with  unbelief. 
You  cannot  bring  one  dawn  of  regal  splendor 

Nor  bid  the  day  to  shadowy  twilight  fall, 
Nor  send  the  pale  moon  forth  with  radiance  tender, 

And  dare  you  doubt  the  One  who  has  done  all  ? 

"So  much  is  wrong,  there  is  such  pain — such  sin- 
ning." 

Yet  look  again — behold  how  much  is  right ! 
And  He  who  formed  the  world  from  its  beginning 

Knows  how  to  guide  it  upward  to  the  light. 


122  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Your  task,  O  man,  is  not  to  carp  and  cavil 

At  God's  achievements,  but  with  purpose  strong 

To  cling  to  good,  and  turn  away  from  evil — 
That  is  the  way  to  help  the  world  along. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  123 


TWILIGHT  THOUGHTS. 


The  God  of  the  day  has  vanished, 

The  light  from  the  hills  has  fled, 
And  the  hand  of  an  unseen  artist, 

Is  painting  the  west  all  red. 
All  threaded  with  gold  and  crimson, 

And  burnished  with  amber  dye, 
And  tipped  with  purple  shadows, 

The  glory  flameth  high. 


Fair,  beautiful  world  of  ours ! 

Fair,  beautiful  world,  but  oh, 
How  darkened  by  pain  and  sorrow, 

How  blackened  by  sin  and  woe. 
The  splendor  pales  in  the  heavens 

And  dies  in  a  golden  gleam, 
And  alone  in  the  hush  of  twilight, 

I  sit,  in  a  checkered  dream. 


I  think  of  the  souls  that  are  straying, 
In  shadows  as  black  as  night, 

Of  hands  that  are  groping  blindly 
In  search  of  a  shining  light; 


124  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Of  hearts  that  are  mutely  crying. 

And  praying  for  just  one  ray, 
To  lead  them  out  of  the  shadows, 

Into  the  better  way. 


And  I  think  of  the  Father's  children 

Who  are  trying  to  walk  alone, 
Who  have  dropped  the  hand  of  the  Parent, 

And  wander  in  ways  unknown. 
Oh,  the  paths  are  rough  and  thorny, 

And  I  know  they  cannot  stand. 
They  will  faint  and  fall  by  the  wayside, 

Unguarded  by  God's  right  hand. 


And  I  think  of  the  souls  that  are  yearning 

To  follow  the  good  and  true; 
They  are  striving  to  live  unsullied, 

Yet  I  know  not  what  to  do. 
And  I  wonder  when  God,  the  Master, 

Shall  end  this  weary  strife, 
And  lead  us  out  of  the  shadows 

Into  the  deathless  life. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  125 


LISTEN! 


Whoever  you  are  as  you  read  this, 
Whatever  your  trouble  or  grief, 

I  want  you  to  know  and  to  heed  this : 
The  day  draweth  near  with  relief. 


No  sorrow,  no  woe  is  unending, 

Though  heaven  seems  voiceless  and  dumb; 
So  sure  as  your  cry  is  ascending, 

So  surely  an  answer  will  come. 


Whatever  temptation  is  near  you, 
Whose  eyes  on  this  simple  verse  fall; 

Remember  good  angels  will  hear  you 
And  help  you  to  stand,  if  you  call. 


Though  stunned  with  despair  I  beseech  you, 
Whatever  your  losses,  your  need, 

Believe,  when  these  printed  words  reach  you 
Believe  you  were  born  to  succeed. 


126  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

You  are  stronger,  I  tell  you,  this  minute, 

Than  any  unfortunate  fate  I 
And  the  coveted  prize — you  can  win  it ; 

While  life  lasts  'tis  never  too  late ! 


POEMS  OF  EEFLECTION.  127 


SONG  OF  THE  SPIRIT. 


Too  sweet  and  too  subtle  for  pen  or  for  tongue 
In  phrases  unwritten  and  measures  unsung, 
As  deep  and  as  strange  as  the  sounds  of  the  sea, 
Is  the  song  that  my  spirit  is  singing  to  me. 


In  the  midnight  and  tempest  when  forest  trees 

shiver, 

In  the  roar  of  the  surf,  and  the  rush  of  the  river, 
In  the  rustle  of  leaves  and  the  fall  of  the  rain, 
And  on  the  low  breezes  I  catch  the  refrain. 


From  the  vapors  that  frame  and  envelope  the  earth, 
And  beyond,  from  the  realms  where  my  spirit  had 

birth, 

From  the  mists  of  the  land  and  the  fogs  of  the  sea, 
Forever  and  ever  the  song  comes  to  me. 


I  know  not  its  wording — its  import  I  know — 
For  the  rythm  is  broken,  the  measure  runs  low, 
When  vexed  or  allured  by  the  things  of  this  life 
My  soul  is  merged  into  its  pleasures  or  strife. 


128  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

When  up  to  the  hill  tops  of  beauty  and  light 
My  soul  like  a  lark  in  the  ether  takes  flight, 
And  the  white  gates  of  heaven  shine  brighter  and 

nearer, 
The  song  of  the  spirit  grows  sweeter  and  clearer. 


Up,  up  to  the  realms  where  no  mortal  has  trod — 
Into  space  and  infinity  near  to  my  God — 
With  whiteness,  and  silence,  and  beautiful  things, 
I  am  borne  when  the  voice  of  eternity  sings. 


When  once  in  the  winds  or  the  drop  of  the  rain 
Thy  spirit  shall  listen  and  hear  the  refrain, 
Thy  soul  shall  soar  up  like  a  bird  on  the  breeze, 
And  the  things  that  have  pleased  thee  will  never 
more  please. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION  129 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

And  now  when  poets  are  singing 

Their  song  of  olden  days, 
And  now,  when  the  land  is  ringing 

With  sweet  Centennial  lays, 
My  muse  goes  wandering  backward 

To  the  groundwork  of  all  these, 
To  the  time  when  our  Pilgrim  Fathers 

Came  over  the  winter  seas. 

The  sons  of  a  mighty  kingdom, 

Of  a  cultured  folk  were  they, 
Born  amidst  pomp  and  splendor, 

Bred  in  it,  day  by  day. 
Children  of  bloom  and  beauty, 

Reared  under  skies  serene, 
"Where  the  daisy  and  hawthorne  blossomed 

And  the  ivy  was  always  green. 

And  yet,  for  the  sake  of  freedom, 

For  a  free  religious  faith, 
They  turned  from  home  and  people, 

And  stood  face  to  face  with  death. 
They  turned  from  a  tyrant  ruler 

And  stood  on  the  new  world's  shore, 
"With  a  waste  of  waters  behind  them, 

And  a  waste  of  land  before. 


130  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Oh,  men  of  a  great  Republic ; 

Of  a  land  of  untold  worth; 
Of  a  nation  that  has  no  equal 

Upon  God's  round  green  earth; 
I  hear  you  sighing  and  crying 

Of  the  hard,  close  times  at  hand ; 
What  think  you  of  those  old  heroes, 

On  the  rock  twixt  sea  and  land. 

The  bells  of  a  million  churches 

Go  ringing  out  to-night, 
And  the  glitter  of  palace  windows 

Fills  all  the  land  with  light ; 
And  there  is  the  home  and  college, 

And  here  is  the  feast  and  ball, 
And  the  angels  of  peace  and  freedom 

Are  hovering  over  all. 

They  had  no  church,  no  college, 

No  banks,  no  mining  stock; 
They  had  but  the  waste  before  them,. 

The  sea  and  Plymouth  Rock. 
But  there  in  the  night  and  tempest, 

With  gloom  on  every  hand, 
They  laid  the  first  foundation 

Of  a  nation  great  and  grand. 

There  were  no  weak  repinings, 
No  shrinking  from  what  might  be, 

But  with  their  brows  to  the  tempest, 
And  with  their  backs  to  the  sea, 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  131 

They  planned  out  a  noble  future, 

And  planted  the  corner-stone 
Of  the  grandest,  greatest  republic 

The  world  has  ever  known. 

Oh,  women  in  homes  of  splendor, 

Oh  lily-buds  frail  and  fair, 
With  fortunes  upon  your  fingers, 

And  milk-white  pearls  in  your  hair, 
I  hear  you  longing  and  sighing 

For  some  new  fresh  delight ; 
But  what  of  those  Pilgrim  mothers 

On  that  December  night? 

I  hear  you  talking  of  hardships, 

I  hear  you  moaning  of  loss, 
Each  has  her  fancied  sorrow, 

Each  bears  her  self-made  cross. 
But  they,  they  had  only  their  husbands, 

The  rain,  the  rock,  and  the  sea ; 
Yet,  they  looked  up  to  God  and  blessed  Him, 

And  were  glad  because  they  were  free. 

Oh,  grand  old  Pilgrim  heroes, 

Oh,  souls  that  were  tried  and  true, 
With  all  of  our  proud  possessions 

We  are  humbled  at  thought  of  you. 
Men  of  such  might  and  muscle, 

Women  so  brave  and  strong, 
Whose  faith  was  fixed  as  the  mountains, 

Through  a  night  so  dark  and  long. 


132  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

We  know  of  your  grim,  grave  errors, 

As  husbands  and  as  wives ; 
Of  the  rigid  bleak  ideas 

That  starved  your  daily  lives ; 
Of  pent-up,  curbed  emotions, 

Of  feelings  crushed,  suppressed, 
That  God  with  the  heart  created 

In  every  human  breast. 

We  know  of  the  little  remnant 

Of  British  tyranny, 
When  you  hunted  Quakers  and  witches, 

And  swung  them  from  a  tree ; 
Yet  back  to  a  holy  motive, 

To  live  in  the  fear  of  God, 
To  a  purpose  light,  exalted, 

To  walk  where  martyrs  trod. 

We  can  trace  your  gravest  errors. 

Your  aim  was  fixed  and  sure ; 
And  e'en  if  your  acts  were  fanatic, 

We  know  your  hearts  were  pure. 
You  lived  so  near  to  heaven, 

You  overreached  your  trust, 
And  deemed  yourselves  creators, 

Forgetting  you  were  but  dust. 

But  we  with  our  broader  visions, 
With  our  wider  realms  of  thought, 

I  often  think  would  be  better 
If  we  lived  as  our  fathers  taught. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  133 

Their  lives  seemed  bleak  and  rigid, 

Narrow  and  void  of  bloom ; 
Our  minds  have  too  much  freedom, 

And  conscience  too  much  room. 

They  overreached  in  duty, 

They  starved  their  hearts  for  the  right; 
We  live  too  much  in  the  senses, 

We  bask  too  long  in  the  light. 
They  proved  by  their  clinging  to  Him 

The  image  of  God  in  man; 
And  we,  by  our  love  of  license, 

Strengthen  a  Darwin's  plan. 

But  bigotry  reached  its  limit, 

And  license  must  have  its  sway, 
And  both  shall  result  in  profit 

To  those  of  a  later  day. 
With  the  fetters  of  slavery  broken, 

And  freedom's  flag  unfurled, 
Our  nation  strides  onward  and  upward, 

And  stands  the  peer  of  the  world. 

Spires  and  domes  and  steeples 

Glitter  from  shore  to  shore; 
The  waters  are  white  with  commerce, 

The  earth  is  studded  with  ore; 
Peace  is  sitting  above  us, 

And  Plenty,  with  laden  hand, 
Wedded  to  sturdy  Labor, 

Goes  singing  through  the  land. 


134  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Then  let  each  child  of  the  nation 

Who  glories  in  being  free, 
Remember  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 

Who  stood  on  the  rock  by  the  sea; 
For  there  in  the  rain  and  tempest 

Of  a  night  long  passed  away, 
They  sowed  the  seeds  of  a  harvest 

We  gather  in  sheaves  to-day. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  135 


LINES  WRITTEN  UPON  THE  DEATH 
OF  JAMES  BUELL. 


Something  is  missing  from  the  balmy  spring; 

There  is  no  perfume  in  its  gentle  breath; 
And  there  are  sobs,  in  songs  the  wild  birds  sing, 

And  all  the  bees  chant  of  the  grave  and  death — 
Something  is  missing  from  the  earth.     One  morn 

The  angels  called  a  new  name  on  the  roll; 
A  spirit-soldier  to  their  ranks  was  borne, 

And  all  Christ's  army  welcomed  the  pure  young 
soul. 

He  died.    Two  little  words,  but  only  God 

Can  understand  the  awful  depths  of  woe 
They  hold  for  those  who  pass  beneath  the  rod, 

Praying  for  strength,  from  Him  who  aimed  the 

blow. 
He  died.     The  soldier  who  fought  long  and  well, 

Who  walked  with  Death  upon  the  battle-field, 
Among  the  bellowing  guns — the  shrieking  shell — 

In  poison  prison  dens — and  would  not  yield. 

A  six  months  three  times  told  he  languished  there, 
And  yet  he  lived;   oh,  young  heart,  strong  and 
brave ! 


136  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Thank  God,  who  heard  the  oft  repeated  prayer; 

Thank  God,  he  does  not  fill  a  Southern  grave ; 
That  when  he  died,  the  loved  ones  gathered  round 

And  eased  the  anguish  of  those  last,  sad  hours; 
That  gentle  hands  can  keep  the  precious  mound 

All  green  with  mosses,  and  abloom  with  flowers. 


He  was  so  young  and  fair;  and  life  so  sweet. 

Christ  gives  the  mourners  strength  to  drain  the 

cup. 
He  went  to  make  the  Heavenly  ranks  complete. 

God  sent  the  angel  Death  to  bear  him  up 
So  young,  and  fair  and  brave;   so  loved  by  all; 

The  lisping  child-life's  veteran,  bent  and  gray — 
The  eyes  grew  dim,  and  bitter  tear-drops  fall 

Upon  the  mound  where  lies  the  soldier's  clay. 


Oh!  it  is  sweet  to  feel  that  God  knows  best, 

"Who  called  in  youth  this  brother,  friend,  and  son. 
And  sweet  to  lean  upon  the  Saviour's  breast, 

And  looking  upwards,  say,  "Thy  will  be  done." 
But  something  is  missing  from  the  balmy  spring: 

There  is  no  perfume  in  its  gentle  breath, 
And  there  are  sobs  in  songs  the  wild  birds  sing, 

And  all  the  bees  chant  of  the  grave  and  death, 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  137 


SEARCHING. 


These  quiet  autumn  days, 
My  soul,  like  Noah's  dove,  on  airy  wings 
Goes  out  and  searches  for  the  hidden  things 

Beyond  the  hills  of  haze. 

With  mournful,  pleading  cries, 
Above  the  waters  of  the  voiceless  sea 
That  laps  the  shores  of  Eternity, 

Day  after  day  it  flies. 

Searching,  but  all  in  vain, 
For  some  stray  leaf  that  it  may  light  upon 
And  read  the  future  as  the  days  agone — 

Its  joy,  its  pain. 

Listening,  patiently, 

For  some  voice  speaking  from  the  mighty  deep, 
Revealing  all  the  things  that  it  doth  keep 

In  secret  there  for  me. 

Come  back  and  wait,  my  soul! 
Day  after  day  thy  search  has  been  in  vain. 
Voiceless  and  silent,  o'er  the  future's  pain, 

Its  mistic  waters  roll. 


138  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


God,  seeing,  knoweth  best, 
And  day  by  day  the  waters  shall  subside, 
And  thou  shalt  know  what  lies  beneath  the  tide; 

Then  wait,  my  soul,  and  rest. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  139 


FADING. 


She  sits  beside  the  window.    All  who  pass 
Turn  once  again  to  gaze  on  her  sweet  face. 

She  is  so  fair;   but  soon,  too  soon,  alas, 
To  lie  down  in  her  last  resting-place. 


No  gems  are  brighter  than  her  sparkling  eyes, 
Her  brow  like  polished  marble,  white  and  fair — 

Her  cheeks  are  glowing  as  the  sunset  skies — 
You  would  not  dream  that  Death  was  lurking 
there. 


But,  oh !  he  lingers  closely  at  her  side, 

And  when  the  forest  dons  her  Autumn  dress- 

We  know  that  he  will  claim  her  as  his  bride, 
And  earth  will  number  one  fair  spirit  less. 


She  sees  the  meadow  robed  in  richest  green — 
The  laughing  stream — the  willows  bending  o'er. 

"With  tear  dimmed  eyes  she  views  each  sylvan  scene, 
And  thinks  earth  never  was  so  fair  before. 


140  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 


We  do  not  sigh  for  heaven,  till  we  have  known, 
Something  of  sorrow,  something  of  grief  and 
woe, 

And  as  a  summer  day  her  life  has  flown. 
Oh,  can  we  wonder  she  is  loth  to  go  ? 


She  has  no  friends  in  Heaven:  all  are  here. 

No  lost  one  waits  her  in  that  unknown  land, 
And  life  grows  doubly,  trebly  sweet  and  dear 

As  day  by  day  she  nears  the  mystic  strand. 


We  love  her  and  we  grieve  to  see  her  go. 

But  it  is  Christ  who  calls  her  to  His  breast, 
And  He  shall  greet  her,  and  she  soon  shall  know 

The  joys  of  souls  that  dwell  among  the  blest. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  141 


A  DREAM. 


The  shadows  of  a  winter  night  were  falling, 
The  snows  were  drifting  in  my  cottage  door — 

And  loud  the  voices  of  the  winds  were  calling, 
When  there  came  a  stranger,  lone,  despised,  and 
poor! 

Came  to  my  glowing  hearth,  all  humbly  pleading 
For  food  and  shelter  till  the  day  should  dawn — 

But  to  his  every  word  I  stood  unheeding, 
And  turned  him  forth  and  bade  him  wander  on. 

I  have  six  little  ones  to  guard  from  danger; 

I  have  a  pillow  for  each  precious  head; 
But  nought  to  waste  upon  a  beggared  stranger — 

And  "charity  begins  at  home,"  I  said. 

All  fierce  and  loud  the  winter  wind  was  groaning, 
Like  some  lost  spirit,  doomed  to  death  it  seemed ; 

While  at  some  door  it  made  its  ceaseless  moaning, 
I  sought  my  pillow,  and  I  slept  and  dreamed. 

I  dreamed  I  stood  at  Heaven's  gate  entreating, 
Weeping  and  wailing  for  the  other  side ; 

While  in  the  gloom  I  stood,  all  wildly  beating, 
Begging  the  angel  guard  to  open  wide. 


142  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

At  length  I  heard  the  pearly  hinges  turning, 
And  saw  the  glories  that  no  tongue  can  tell. 

Before  me  all  the  hues  of  Heaven  burning, 
Behind  me  all  the  gloom  of  death  and  hell. 


I  strove  to  enter,  but  a  voice  like  thunder, 

Cried  "Come  no  nearer,  oh!  thou  soul  of  sin." 

And  I  shrank  down  in  awful  fear  and  wonder, 
For  I  had  thought  to  enter  boldly  in. 


Again  the  voice  cried,  "When  in  woe  and  anguis! 

I  sought  a  shelter  at  thy  glowing  hearth, 
Thou  turned  me  out,  unclothed,  unfed  to  languisl 

And  wander  wearily  upon  the  earth. 


"Depart  from  here,  thou  selfish  sinful  mortal, 
On  heaven's  perfect  face,  a  stain  and  blot; 

For  never  can'st  thou  cross  the  shining  portal, 
Ye  knew  not  me  and  now  I  know  ye  not." 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  143 


IDLER'S  SONG. 


I  sit  in  the  twilight  dim. 

At  the  close  of  an  idle  day, 
And  I  list  to  the  soft,  sweet  hymn, 

That  rises  far  away, 
And  dies  on  the  evening  air. 

Oh,  all  day  long, 

They  sing  their  song, 
Who  toil  in  the  valley  there. 


But  never  a  song  sing  I, 
Sitting  with  folded  hands, 

The  hours  pass  me  by — 
Dropping  their  golden  sands — - 

And  I  list,  from  day  to  day, 
To  the  "tick,  tick,  tock" 
Of  the  old  brown  clock, 

Ticking  my  life  away. 


And  I  see  the  twilight  fade, 
And  I  see  the  night  come  on, 

And  then,  in  the  gloom  and  shade, 
I  weep  for  the  day  that's  gone — 


144  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

"Weep  and  wail  in  pain, 
For  the  misspent  day 
That  has  flown  away, 

And  will  not  come  again. 


Another  morning  beams, 
And  I  forget  the  last, 

And  I  sit  in  idle  dreams 
'Till  the  day  is  over — past. 

Oh,  the  toiler's  heart  is  glad! 
When  the  day  is  gone 
And  the  night  conies  on, 

But  mine  is  sore  and  sad. 


For  I  dare  not  look  behind ! 

No  shining,  golden  sheaves 
Can  I  ever  hope  to  find : 

Nothing  but  withered  leaves, 
Ah,  dreams  are  very  sweet ! 

But  will  not  please 

If  only  these 
I  lay  at  the  Master's  feet. 


And  what  will  the  Master  say 
To  dreams  and  nothing  more? 

Oh,  idler,  all  the  day! 
Think,  ere  thy  life  is  o'er ! 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  145 

And  when  the  day  grows  late, 

Oh,  soul  of  sin ! 

Will  He  let  you  in, 
There  at  the  pearly  gate  ? 


Oh,  idle  heart,  beware! 

On,  to  the  field  of  strife ! 
On,  to  the  valley  there! 

And  live  a  useful  life! 
Up,  do  not  wait  a  day ! 

For  the  old  brown  clock, 

With  its  'Hick,  tick,  tock" 
Is  ticking  your  life  away. 


146 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION, 


FOR  HIM  WHO  BEST  SHALL  UNDE 
STAND  IT. 


I  know  a  "righteous  Christian," 

(That  is,  he  thinks  he's  one,) 
He  goes  to  church  on  Sunday 

And  thinks  his  duty  done. 
And  always  at  prayer-meeting, 

He  sighs,  and  groans,  and  prays; 
And  talks  about  the  sinners, 

And  warns  them  from  their  ways. 


And  many  of  his  neighbors, 

He  knows  are  bound  for  hell; 
Although  they  love  their  Master, 

And  do  their  duty  well. 
But  they  pray  within  their  closet, 

And  do  not  own  a  "pew," 
And  he's  sure  they'll  not  be  numbered 

Among  God's  chosen  few. 


He  exhorts  men  to  be  careful 
And  keep  from  worldly  strife. 

And  he  thinks  a  race  for  riches 
The  worst  thing  in  this  life. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  147 

"Do  good,"  he  cried,  "with  money, 

Ye  who  have  aught  to  spare," 
And  he  preaches  quite  a  sermon, 

And  ends  it  with  a  prayer. 


Well!  he  has  bonds  with  coupons, 

And  lots  of  cash  on  hand, 
And  when  the  fierce  Fire  Demon, 

Went  raging  through  our  land, 
The  neighborhood  was  canvassed, 

For  money,  clothes,  and  food, 
To  send  the  starving  people, 

And  the  man  who  cries,  "Do  good,"- 


My  preaching,  praying  Christian, 

Now  boasts,  in  pride  and  glee, 
"Those  begging,  sponging  rascals, 

Didn't  get  a  cent  from  me! 
I  don't  believe  their  stories, 

About  the  suffering  poor, 
The  thieves  were  after  money, 

And  I  sent  them  from  my  door." 


Oh,  out  upon  such  a  pretense! 

May  a  curse  be  upon  his  gold, 
And  the  cries  of  an  hundred  people, 

Hungry,  and  naked,  and  cold, 


148  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Ring  in  his  ears  forever; 

And  the  words  his  false  lips  pray 
Fall  on  deaf  ears  in  heaven, 

From  now  till  the  Judgment  Day. 


Oh  "hypocrites,  and  liars!" 

Your  prayers  blaspheme  God's  name! 
And  if  the  angels  hear  them, 

They  blush  for  you  in  shame, 
And,  though  you  deceive  your  fellows, 

With  the  pious  cloak  you  wear ; 
The  hosts  of  heaven  look  deeper, 

And  they  know  your  true  worth  there. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  149 


DYING. 


The  great  high  arch  of  heaven,  like  tapestry 

On  ancient  walls,  was  grandly  colored — save 
The  quiet,  cloudless  west,  that  was  a  sea 

Of  purest  crystal — golden  wave  on  wave. 
"Oh  love,"  she  whispered,  "open  wide  the  blind, 

And  let  me  see  the  glory  of  the  West; 
There  just  across  the  sea,  my  soul  will  find — 

What  here  is  never  found — find  peace  and  rest." 

Deeper,  and  darklier  grand,  the  bright  clouds  grew, 

And  red  and  amber  streaks  shot  through  the 

North. 
The  very  light  of  heaven  was  shining  through 

The  crystal  West.     She  reached  her  thin  hand 

forth 
And  a  strange  splendor  fell  upon  her  face ; 

And  her  dark  eyes  glowed  with  unearthly  light. 
I  knew  it  came  from  God's  celestial  place, 

Where  there  is  neither  sorrow,  death,  nor  night. 

"Oh   love!"    she   cried,    "my    struggling    spirit 
yearns 

To  leave  this  clay  and  go  across  the  sea, 
Look !  how  to  molten  gold  the  whole  sky  turns ; 

And  see  that  white  hand  beckoning  to  me. 


150  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Oh  love,  my  love,  this  is  not  death,  to  go 
At  this  sweet  hour  across  the  golden  tide; 

To  drop  my  every  care,  and  henceforth  know 
Only  the  pleasures  of  that  other  side." 


The  angel  took  the  tapestries  away, 

And  rolled  them  up  in  heaven,  out  of  sight, 
Leaving  the  Common  walls  of  sombre  gray 

To  catch  the  dews  and  damp  fogs  of  the  night. 
The  west  wind  played  upon  his  dulcimer. 

I  leaned  across  her  couch  with  bated  breath ; 
"Oh  love,"  I  said,  as  I  gazed  down  on  her, 

"Surely,  thy  words  were  true,  this  is  not  death!" 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  151 


THANKSGIVING. 


Thank  God  for  men !  I  hear  the  shout 
From  east  and  west  go  up,  and  out. 
Thank  God  for  men  whose  hearts  are  true ; 
For  men  who  boldly  dare,  and  do. 
For  men  who  are  not  bought  and  sold, 
Who  value  honor  more  than  gold, 
For  men  large-hearted,  noble-minded, 
For  men  whose  visions  are  not  blinded 
"With  selfish  aims :  men  who  will  fight 
With  tongue  or  sword,  for  what  is  right; 
For  men  whom  threats  can  never  cower, 
For  men  who  dare  to  use  their  power 
To  shield  the  right  and  punish  wrong 
E  'en  though  his  host  are  bold  and  strong ; 
For  men  who  work  with  hearts  and  hands 
For  what  the  public  good  demands. 
Bless  God  the  thankful  people  say. 
Such  men  have  not  all  passed  away. 


Bless  God,  enough  are  left,  at  least 

To  put  a  muzzle  on  the  beast 

That  walks  our  land  from  breadth  to  length 

And  robs  the  strong  man  of  his  strength, 


152  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Takes  bread  from  babes,  steals  wise  men's  brains, 

And  leaves  them  bound  in  helpless  chains; 

Makes  sin  and  sorrow,  shame  and  woe, 

"Where  e'er  his  cloven  foot  may  go. 

This  is  the  mission  of  the  beast 

Whose  bloated  keepers  sit  and  feast 

On  seasoned  dainties  that  were  bought 

"With  blood,  and  tears,  and  God  knows  what. 

Keepers  who  laugh  when  women  cry, 

"Who  smile  when  children  starve  and  die. 

If  so  they  gain  one  farthing  more 

To  add  to  their  ill-gotten  store. 

From  south  and  north  and  west  and  east, 
The  people  clamored:  "Chain  the  beast! 
Fetter  the  monster  Alcohol, 
Before  he  robs  us  of  our  all." 

Thank  God,  the  earnest  cry  was  heard, 

And  hearts  of  noble  men  were  stirred, 

And  though  a  weak-kneed  host  went  down 

Before  the  keeper's  threatening  frown, 

Enough  were  left — a  bold,  brave  few, 

Strong-brained,  broad-souled  men  that  were  true, 

Men  who  were  men,  and  did  not  fear 

The  villain's  threat,  the  coward's  sneer; 

Enough  to  muzzle  with  the  law 

The  foulest  beast  the  world  e'er  saw. 

Thank  God,  thank  God,  the  people  say. 

True  men  have  not  all  passed  away. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  153 


OUR  ANGEL. 


Upon  a  couch  all  robed  by  careful  hands 
For  her  repose  the  maiden  Mabel  lies 

Her  long  bright  hair  is  braided  in  smooth  bands — 
A  mass  of  stranded  gold  that  mortal  eyes 

May,  wandering,  gaze  upon  a  little  while ; 

That  mortal  hands  may  touch  a  few  times  more. 
Her  placid  lips  part  in  a  sweet  faint  smile; 

And  if  the  glories  of  that  mystic  shore 

"When  first  they  fell  upon  her  spirit  eyes — 
All  the  rare  splendor  of  that  unseen  way — 

Had  touched  her  with  a  wondering  glad  surprise, 
And  left  the  pleased  expression  on  her  clay. 

Her  two  fair  hands  are  crossed  upon  her  breast — 
Two  shapes  of  wax,  upon  a  drift  of  snow. 

And  they  have  robed  her  peaceful  rest, 

Not  in  that  hateful  shroud — that  sign  of  woe, 

But  in  that  garb  we  loved  to  see  her  wear ; 

A  dark  blue  robe,  fashioned  by  her  hand. 
I  wonder,  as  I  see  her  lying  there, 

If  God  will  give  her  spirit  in  His  land 


154  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Another  shape.    She  could  not  be  more  fair. 

I  think  He  will  not  change  her  form,  or  face, 
But  with  the  same  long  rippling  golden  hair 

She  will  kneel  down  before  the  throne  of  grace, 


And  wipe  God's  feet;  and  her  dark  eyes  will  raise 
Up  to  Christ's  face,  and  touch  Him  with  her 

hand, 
And  will  with  her  own  sweet  voice  sing  God's 

praise 
And  still  be  fairest  in  the  Angel  band. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  155 


UNTIL  THE  NIGHT. 


Over  the  ocean  of  life's  commotion 

We  sail  till  the  night  comes  on. 
Sail  and  sail  in  a  tiny  boat, 

Drifting  wherever  the  billows  go. 
Out  on  the  treacherous  sea  afloat, 

Beat  by  the  cruel  winds  that  blow, 
Hither  and  ttiither  our  boat  is  drawn, 

Till  the  day  dies  out  and  the  night  comes  on. 


Over  a  meadow  of  light  and  shadow 

We  wander  with  weary  feet, 
Seeking  a  bauble  men  call  ''Fame," 

Grasping  the  dead-sea  fruit  named  "wealth," 
Finding  each  but  an  empty  name, 

And  the  night — the  night  steals  on  by  stealth. 
And  we  count  the  season  of  slumber  sweet, 

When  hope  lies  dead  in  the  arms  of  defeat. 


Over  the  river  a  great  Forever, 

Stretches  beyond  our  sight. 
But  I  know  by  the  glistening  pearly  gates 

Afar  from  the  region  of  strife  and  sin, 


156  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

A  beautiful  angel  always  waits 
To  welcome  the  sheep  of  the  shepherd  in. 

And  out  of  the  shadows  of  gloom  and  night, 
They  enter  the  mansion  of  peace  and  light. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  157 


A  TRIBUTE. 


My  heart  that  otherwise  was  glad 
(So  much  God  gives  to  make  it  so) 

This  golden  afternoon  is  sad 
And  troubled  with  another's  woe; 

And  stranger  that  I  am,  I  fain 
Would  send  some  solace  for  her  pain. 


My  talks  with  Sorrow  have  been  brief; 

She  touched  my  robe,  in  gliding  by — 
And  when  I've  chanced  to  meet  with  Grief, 

He's  passed  me  with  averted  eye. 
Yet,  through  another's  pain,  I  see 

Sometimes  a  glimpse  of  what  may  be. 


And  of  all  griefs  that  mortals  know — 
Of  all  that  pierce  the  human  heart. 

There  seems  to  me  no  other  woe 
Like  that  which  rends  the  soul  apart, 

When  a  fond  mother  sees  death's  night 
Sealing  an  infant's  eyes  of  light. 


158  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

The  babe  endeared  by  pangs  and  fears 
That  she  has  suffered  for  its  sake, 

The  babe  she  watched  above  with  tears, 
Or  sat  through  lonely  nights,  awake. 

And  sang  some  tender  lullaby — 
And  all  for  this — to  see  it  die. 


And  thinking  of  that  stricken  one, 
Who  weeps  to-day  a  double  loss, 

Who  sees  a  darkness  o'er  the  sun 
Made  by  her  overshadowing  cross — 

And  thinking  how  her  poor  arms  ache 
I  shed  some  tears  for  her  sad  sake. 


Yet  in  the  perfect  pure  sunlight — 
In  flowers  of  beauty  and  perfume, 

I  think  God  puts  these  souls  so  white, 
And  gives  them  back  to  us  in  bloom. 

'Tis  thus  we  have  the  light  and  flowers, 
By  yielding  up  these  buds  of  ours. 


In  every  golden,  burnished  ray, 
In  every  sweet  unfolding  leaf, 

Sad  mother,  you  may  find  to-day 
Some  little  solace  in  your  grief. 

God  lets  them  comfort  you  this  wise, 
Until  you  join  them  in  the  skies. 


POEMS  OF  REFLECTION.  159 


IN  MEMORY  OF  CHARLIE  SPAUL- 
DING. 

Aged  6  years  and  5  months ;  died  July  4, 1875. 

With  eyes  that  scarce  can  see  for  tears, 
We  look  back  o'er  the  little  space 

Of  baby  Charlie's  life.    Six  years 
Since  first  we  looked  upon  his  face. 

Six  years  since  from  the  angel  band 

Our  little  cherub  strayed  away. 
We  did  not  know  or  understand 

He  was  but  lent,  and  could  not  stay. 

We  looked  into  his  lovely  eyes, 
So  large,  so  soulful,  and  so  deep, 

And  knew  he  came  from  God's  own  skies, 
And  thought  that  he  was  our's  to  keep. 

But  angels  missed  him  'round  the  Throne 
And  ere  his  earthly  years  were  seven, 

Christ  called  him,  leaving  us  alone, 

To  turn  our  sorrowing  hearts  to  Heaven. 

For  now,  no  matter  what  may  come, 
Wealth,  fortune,  honors,  earthly  bliss, 

No  place  can  seem  to  us  like  home, 
Hereafter  save  where  Charlie  is. 


160  POEMS  OF  REFLECTION. 

Life  could  not  grow  so  warm,  so  bright, 
No  circumstances  bring  such  joy, 

But  that  our  thoughts  each  morn  and  night 
Would  turn  to  Heaven  and  our  boy. 

The  thought  that  we  may  meet  him  there, 
And  walk  with  him  the  heavenly  plain 

Alone  can  keep  us  from  despair, 
And  bring  us  comfort  in  our  pain. 

For  Arthur,  who  is  left  below, 
Are  many  thorny  paths  to  tread. 

His  lips  must  drink  of  grief  and  woe; 
Not  so  with  Charlie,  who  is  dead. 

For  Arthur  there  must  be,  at  best, 

Full  many  an  hour  of  gloom  and  sorrow ; 

For  Charlie,  dwelling  with  the  blest, 
Joy  only,  through  an  endless  morrow. 

Walking  the  golden  streets  above, 

He  watches  o'er  us  ever  more. 
God  grant  through  Christ's  redeeming  love. 

We  yet  may  meet  him  on  that  shore. 

The  thought  of  death  is  very  sweet — 
The  grave  can  have  no  chill  or  gloom 

For  those  who  have  a  child  to  meet 
Beyond  in  fields  of  living  bloom. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


REC'D  L 


APR     8  1984 


DISCHARGE* 

OCT  6  H9BQ 

p 

4WKJUN0219* 


MAY  19 1997 


